


Temper

by Bullfinch



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Dysphoria, M/M, Menstruation, Pre-Relationship, Soldier Enhancement Program Era, Trans Male Character, Trans Soldier: 76 | Jack Morrison, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-09-19 07:34:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 33,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9426524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bullfinch/pseuds/Bullfinch
Summary: Jack joins the SEP and finds trouble almost at once. At least his commanding officer is on his side—probably.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The transphobia a) doesn't show up until chapter two and b) is not on Gabriel's part.
> 
> Not in the timeline of my previous OW series.

He’s the shortest one.

Jack glances left and right surreptitiously. Eleven other men, all of them sporting neat blue uniforms, standing outside the barracks at attention. His own uniform doesn’t fit him quite so well as it fits the others—bunched up a little at the waist, the extra material having ridden up his too-wide hips. Not the shortest one by much—the soldier to his left is only a couple of inches taller, maybe five foot nine.

The CO is six feet at least.

He stalks back and forth in front of them, at ease in the hot summer sun. Jack is sweating, and sweats a little more at the sight. The CO’s a good-looking man. Broad-shouldered, strong jaw, his eyes dark and cool even in the sweltering heat. Young, too, his own age or not much older.

“I’m going to be your captain while you’re here. My name is Reyes.” The man runs a hand lightly over his shorn hair. “The medical officers want a look at you right now, so follow me.” He jerks his head.

They fall in behind him. _Soldier enhancement program._ Jack swallows. It’ll be fine. A few needles are nothing to worry about. As for what’s in them…well. It’s all been tested, right?

Right.

Across the asphalt and into the ugly white building at the back of the base. The air conditioning is a blessing, and Jack wipes his forehead, peels the uniform away from his back.

“Damn. Thought I was going to melt.”

That’s the guy behind him. Jack turns—had been afraid to speak himself, in case the captain got pissed. But Reyes only glances over his shoulder and continues leading them on. Jack clocks the other guy’s name (Liao) and answers, glad for the offered hand. “No kidding. Thank God the barracks here have AC. They didn’t in basic.”

“Yes, they have AC.” That’s the captain at the front. “And the food doesn’t taste like shit, and the pool table in the rec hall is brand new and the sound system could probably bring down the building if you turn it up loud enough. We take care of you. But we also expect you to perform. Let me be clear—“ He turns, halting the line. _“I_ expect you to perform. Do you understand?”

A general question, answered with a series of “yes, sir”s, and Jack joins in. Then they’re going again. He _can_ perform. He’s trained for this.

Captain Reyes gestures to his left, and the soldiers begin to file through an open door. But as Jack reaches the doorway Reyes says, “Morrison.”

Jack jumps, then snaps to attention. “Yes, sir?”

“Come with me. There’s an issue with your paperwork that needs fixing.”

“Yes, sir.”

 _Fuck._ The word thuds in his head as he follows the captain through the beige-walled hallways. What the hell’s the issue? He was medically cleared by at least a half-dozen people before he got here. There is one…incident in his record, but all the witnesses said it was self-defense—

Reyes unlocks a door and leads Jack inside.

It’s an office, cramped, with the face of every soldier in the squad tacked up on one wall. His own photo is there—looks fucking baby-faced, wishes they’d let him grow his scruff out even if it doesn’t make much difference, him being blond and all.

Reyes shuts the door and goes around the desk, waves a hand as he flops down in the chair. “Relax. No one’s kicking you out of the program.”

Jack takes a deep breath. “What’s the issue, sir?”

Reyes plucks a tablet from the desk, scrolls through it with one idle finger. “Jack Morrison.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So you’re a trans man, huh?”

Jack steels himself. “That’s right, sir.”

“A trans man. Huh.” One dark eyebrow quirks up, his eyes still scanning the tablet. “I’m surprised they let you in.”

Jack licks his lips, then clenches his jaw, buying himself time. This isn’t a good situation to lose his temper. “I don’t see how it has any bearing on my ability to be a good soldier. _Sir.”_

Reyes looks up, blinking—surprised. “No, that’s not what I meant. I just—so I got a dressing-down from some of the guys in charge before they assigned me, and they didn’t seem to like…well, anything, really, that didn’t conform to exactly what they were looking for. So I’m surprised they pulled their heads out of their asses long enough to let you in.”

Oh. An amused smile rises to Jack’s face, and he nods at the tablet. “If you got my file there, you can probably see I scored in the top tenth percentile for damn near everything. So maybe that’s why.”

Reyes grins broadly. A good look on him. “Couldn’t afford not to, huh? And yeah, your scores are pretty fucking good. Except tactics, looks like.”

Jack shrugs. “I wouldn’t call the seventy-third percentile _not good,_ personally, but—“

“I would.” Reyes rests his chin on his hand and fixes Jack with that cool gaze. “I scored a ninety-eight.”

Fuck. “Oh,” Jack says.

“But you’re right. With these scores, they’d have to be brainless not to take you.” He scrolls again, spreads two fingers to zoom. “Your best was in close-range field combat, is that right?”

“Yes, sir.” It was a tough series of assessments, and he had to do a lot of improvising—breaking tables, smashing bottles, dunking power packs in sinks, that kind of thing. But they liked it. A lot. “Second-highest in the program so far, they said. Almost beat the top score.”

“Hm. Well, it’s a good thing you didn’t.”

Jack cocks his head. “Why’s that?”

“That score’s mine.” Reyes tosses the tablet away and pushes himself up, heaving a sigh. “Anyway, I wanted to ask you if you’re planning to tell anyone about being a trans man.”

“Oh. Uh…I’m not planning to _tell_ anyone, exactly, but I expect it’ll come out as soon as we all hit the showers.”

“Do you _want_ to keep it a secret? I can help you out with that.”

“No, I’d rather not hide it. Thank you.”

“Fine. But if you ever need help with it, or someone finds out and starts giving you shit, just talk to me. The program’s supposed to be pretty unforgiving, I don’t want anything getting in the way of you moving ahead.”

“Understood, sir. Uh…thank you. I didn’t expect—“

“I know. Now come on, let’s get back.”

Jack, dumbstruck, follows him out of the office.

——

It’s hot.

It’s only June and it’s only eight in the morning but it’s hot. Jack squints up at the sky, crystal-blue in every direction without a cloud to be seen. So it’ll continue to be hot. His shorts are already starting to stick to his ass as he follows the squad to the training field.

“Damn,” Liao sighs. “This ain’t gonna be fun.”

Jack glances over and grins. “Better get used to it. We’re in the South now. Summer’s just getting started, we got at least another three months of this shit.”

Liao moans. “I’m not gonna survive.”

“Ah, come on, doesn’t it ever get hot where you’re from?”

He snorts. “Not in Harbin. Long Island wasn’t bad either, we were on the water.”

“Well.” Jack claps him on the back, puts a false growl in his voice. “You’re a super soldier now, son. You can handle anything.”

A laugh. “They haven’t even given us any drugs yet.”

Jack taps his temple. “It’s all in the mind.”

The training field is just that—a field, maybe sixty yards long and forty wide, surrounded on all sides by a chain link fence. The grass is even kind of patchy. He’d expected something fancier, considering the rest of this place. Instead, it just reminds him of the yard behind his elementary school where they let all the kids loose for recess every afternoon. At the near end there’s a big blue water cooler standing on the bench. Captain Reyes calls out to them, “All right, give me forty laps! And anyone who finishes after me gets to participate in some extra training tonight after dinner!”

“Better get moving,” Liao grumbles, and starts jogging. Jack follows, coming up beside him. Running is fine. He may not be able to lift as much as these other guys, but if there’s one thing he can do, it’s run.

The rest of the pack pulls away ahead, but he isn’t worried. Captain Reyes is maintaining an even, steady pace behind them, and after a little while Jack stops keeping an eye out; it’s plain he means to be a back bumper. He isn’t _slow,_ exactly, but it’s manageable for soldiers of their caliber. He does watch the pack out front. Some of them seem to be in a race. Of course they are. More of the weird macho bullshit he never quite caught on to. They pull further and further away, sniping the lead from each other with quick bursts of sprinting. Jack continues to jog. Just jog.

Beside him, Liao isn’t doing so great.

The sun blasts down on them, and the trees that ring the field are in the wrong position to provide any shade at this time of day. At ten laps he looks fine, and at twenty he’s okay; at thirty his breathing is uneven, and he can’t stop mopping the sweat from his brow. He takes a couple of quick detours to drink from the cooler—Jack going with him—but as Reyes gains on them he stops doing that, his form starting to dissolve.

“Hey,” Jack says under his breath. “You need a break, you can take it. Whatever the captain’s got planned for tonight can’t be worse than running yourself into the ground.”

“Uh-uh.” Liao shakes his head. “We’re super soldiers now, Jack. We can handle anything.”

“No one’s gonna—“

“It’s fine, Jack,” Liao interrupts. “I’m good, promise.”

In another moment the leaders of the pack come to a stop at the head of the field, having passed Jack and Liao a few times along the way. They lean down on their knees, shaking their heads and laughing from across the grass. From the long edge of the field Captain Reyes stops, cups his hands to his mouth, and calls out, “Good, now do another twenty! That goes for all of you!”

Jack grins to himself, had expected something like this. Beside him Liao groans. “That motherfucker.”

“Seriously, Liao, if you’re not feeling so good—“

“I’m _fine,_ Jack. Let’s just get it over with.”

He shrugs. Can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped. His own shirt is soaked with sweat, and he can’t remember the last time he had swamp-ass this bad, but another twenty laps won’t give him too much trouble. Around the field again, Captain Reyes gaining on them just a little as Jack slows to keep pace with Liao, whose form is failing even further, his toes dragging in the grass. Still, Jack keeps his mouth shut as they put in their distance. The sun is getting pretty nasty, the humid air unpleasant as he sucks it into his lungs. And no damn shade. Well, there was hardly any in Indiana either.

Something bumps into him. Liao, falling.

Jack whirls and catches him, lowers him to the ground. He isn’t out, but he blinks slowly with unfocused eyes, sweat dripping from his eyebrows. “Shit,” Jack mutters. “Hey, you still with me?”

“Huh. Uh-huh.” Liao nods, his mouth hanging open as he takes rapid, shallow breaths.

“Let's take it easy there.” Jack sits him up against the fence.

He rouses quickly, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head. “Whoa.” He rubs his face. “Did I pass out?”

“Not really, but I need to take you to the infirmary. Let me know when you’re ready to stand.”

“No, no way.” Liao shakes his head again, more firmly this time. “I can get there myself.”

“Sure as hell doesn’t look like it—“

“I _can,_ Jack. I’ll just walk there, I’ll take it slow.”

“What happened?”

That’s Captain Reyes, looming over them in his sweat-soaked blue t-shirt and shorts. Oh. “Liao collapsed,” Jack tells him. “I’m gonna bring him to the infirmary.”

“Goddamnit, Jack, I told you. I can walk there myself.” Liao starts to rise, pulling himself up the chain link fence.

Jack stands. “Well, I’m taking you anyway.”

“Morrison.” Reyes gazes at him evenly. “You know this’ll count against your time.”

“Yes, sir.” Jack grasps Liao’s arm. “I understand. I’ll see you this evening.”

He walks Liao off the field.

On the way Liao is slow but doesn’t waver. That’s a good sign. At the infirmary they take one look at him and put in an IV, hanging two bags of fluid. Liao growls at Jack to go get the laps done before he incurs additional disciplinary measures, so Jack returns and finds the group still running. He joins in, but in three minutes the rest are finished, and Captain Reyes dismisses them to the showers. Jack passes Reyes next to the bench. Still thirteen more laps to go.

Then he catches sight of Reyes behind him, again, maybe twenty yards’ distance between them. Still acting as a back bumper. But he must have run sixty laps already with everyone else.

Jack ups the pace, his trainers thudding into the grass. At least he can finish this sooner, for both their sakes. But the sun’s higher now and the air’s pretty damn humid and he slows a little. Overextended himself—

—but Reyes matched his pace before and hasn’t slowed, coming up on him faster now. Jack shakes his head and grins and pushes himself harder.

And that’s how the last thirteen laps go. Jack tries to back off a little but Reyes never takes the bait, and by the time it’s done Jack staggers over to the water cooler and can barely drink for the breaths he’s gulping in. Reyes lowers himself to the bench, gesturing; when Jack turns around with the cup of water Reyes’s shirt is on the grass, and he pours the water all over his shaven head and hairy chest. Jack, a little woozy from exertion, forces himself to turn and refill his own cup, his eyes locked firmly on the white plastic spigot.

“Fuck, Morrison,” Reyes gasps. “You really have to jog so fucking fast? I already did sixty fucking laps.”

Jack swallows, wiping his mouth. “I tried to slow down! You wouldn’t let me!”

Reyes gives him an incredulous look. “Why would I let you slow down? You don’t get stronger by taking a fucking break.”

Jack groans. “Yes, sir.”

Reyes pushes himself to his feet. “Jesus. Let’s hit the showers.”

They head to the locker room. Everyone took showers at different times yesterday, since they were all still settling in. Today all his squadmates are finished already. So his big coming-out will have to wait. And Reyes already knows, so there’s nothing to get worked up about.

Nothing to get worked up about.

Jack strips down, throws his clothes in the soiled linens bag, then takes a deep breath and heads for the nearest shower head.

He can practically feel the salt caking him, is glad for the lukewarm temperature of the water when it cascades down on his head, quickly soaking his hair. Behind him there’s the sound of a second shower head. Captain Reyes.

Jack reaches for the soap, his eyes fixed firmly on the navy-blue tile wall despite the temptation so look elsewhere. It’s probably not a good fucking idea to sneak peeks at his commanding officer.

The gel soap smells like nothing. He works it into his hair, rotating a little, and then a little more. Reyes is facing the wall, one hand running over his shorn scalp.

Definitely a bad idea. Not the worst _,_ though—one good thing about being trans is that he can’t get made fun of for popping a boner because no one can tell. Reyes is _broad—_ shoulders, hips and waist, and _thighs._ Muscled but not cut in the sort-of grotesque way some of the other soldiers look to be; there’s a gentle layer of softness at his waist. Jack lets out a breath, blinks water from his eyes—

“I can feel you staring at my ass, Morrison.”

Jack starts so hard he almost slips. “I’m so—no, that wasn’t what I was doing! Captain.”

Reyes turns. “Oh, shit, were you actually?” He grins. “Calm down, it’s a joke. Sometime I can catch one or two guys with it. It’s fine, I don’t give a shit.”

Jack goes back to staring at the wall, more resolutely this time. Well, that was fucking embarrassing.

He finishes up quickly so he can put his damn clothes on before Reyes starts getting dressed, lingers by the door while he waits. Then Reyes smacks him on the shoulder as he shoves the door open. “All right, get back to the barracks. I’ll be by soon to take you all for the first round of injections.”

“Yes, sir.” He follows Reyes out into the blazing sun, squinting against it.

“And Morrison?”

Jack looks over. “Yes, sir?”

The grin is gone, the cool gaze back, patient as ever. “I’ll see you tonight.”

He nods. “Understood, sir.”

——

The injection doesn’t make him faint or throw up or anything like that. That’s a good sign. Jack grabs his lunch from the mess hall and takes it down o the infirmary to visit Liao, who’s finishing his second bag of fluid. He’s not pissed anymore, the friction from earlier forgotten. They go together to a conference room for a session about some new tech. Captain Reyes is there, quiet and focused as he writes on hardcopy. The next session is on tactics. Jack makes sure to pay attention for that one, scribbling notes on his tablet. In contrast, the captain gazes at the speaker with boredom that strays over at times into barely disguised contempt.

Well, he did score in the ninety-eighth percentile. Jack bends to his task.

In the evening most of the guys settle in early, lounging in their beds with tablets in hand, though there’s a game of cards going in the corner. Jack doesn’t bother and neither does Liao; if they get comfortable, it’ll just suck more when Reyes shows up to make them run more laps or whatever he has planned. So instead they quiz each other on foreign military history. A third guys overhears and sits down to join them—introduces himself as Vonn Lewis from Boston, and he’s soon beating both of them in point totals.

The barracks are air-conditioned, but only to about seventy-five or so; Liao’s forehead still shines. Jack holds out a water bottle. “Here.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Liao shakes his head and takes it.

“Hey, I’m not trying to get on your ass, just—“

“I got it. Anyways, don’t want to embarrass myself again with whatever the captain’s got in store for us.”

“Hey, this heat is tough,” Lewis puts in. “Did my training in North Carolina and just about melted down to nothing those first few weeks. You do get used to it. Eventually.”

Jack smiles. “Indiana sucked, but it was good for one thing. I used to run in heat like this all the time.”

“I ran in three feet of snow when it was minus twenty degrees,” Liao mutters.

Lewis chuckles. “That Celsius or Fahrenheit? Ah, guess it’s pretty much the same.”

Around eight p.m. the door glides open and Reyes appears. The whole barracks scrambles to attention, but he waves them off before half of them can get out of bed. “Sit down. Morrison, let’s go.”

Jack puts his tablet down and pulls his trainers on. Hopefully it won’t be too bad—

“Liao, relax. You’re not coming.”

Liao’s got one trainer on, but he freezes. “I—sir, I never finished those laps. I should make up—“

“You should do what I fucking say, _recruit,_ because I’m your commanding officer,” Reyes growls. “And you’re not coming.”

Liao takes a deep breath. “Sir, respectfully, I didn’t put in the same—“

Reyes cuts him off. “Did you not hear what I said yesterday? I expect you to perform. And in order for you to do that tomorrow, I need you hydrated and _well rested._ So get some fucking rest. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Liao says quietly.

There’s a murmur from the back of the room, followed by a muted bout of chuckling. Jack spins, pissed already because he knows what it’s about. “You need to shut the fuck—“

But Reyes cuts him off with a barked, “What was that?”

One of the guys in the back straightens up. King, that was his name. “Uh—nothing, sir. Sorry.”

Reyes narrows his eyes. “Are you fucking lying to me, King?”

“I mean—he already fainted today, right?” King offers. “Wouldn’t really call that _performing.”_

Jack steps forward. “What the hell do you—“

Then Reyes plants a hand on his chest and shoves him aside, physically, making him stumble back into Lewis. Reyes brushes past and gets in King’s face, a couple of inches shorter but it’s clear who’s in charge. “Where you from, King?”

King takes a half-step back. “Uh—Jacksonville, sir.”

“Okay. I’m from LA. You and me, we don’t give a shit when it’s ninety-five degrees out and we got laps to run.” He jabs a finger back. “Liao’s from northern fucking China. It hits eighty there two days a year if you’re lucky. So no, he’s not used to the heat, but you know what? When you and me are posted up in Siberia, wading through snow up to our asses and more miserable than we’ve been in our entire fucking lives, he’ll be laughing.” Reyes shakes his head and turns. “There are things you can’t control about your life, King. Like where you grow up. So use your fucking head before you decide to be an asshole next time.” He jerks his head. “Morrison, let’s go.”

Jack starts and goes after him, out into the humid night air.

Reyes’s strides are long and Jack has to jog to catch up with him. “Hey—thanks for defending Liao. I know he was mad at himself after—“

“I was defending you,” Reyes interrupts. “Do us all a favor and don’t make enemies on day fucking two, Morrison. Come on.”

Jack narrows his eyes. _“You_ might’ve just made one.”

“Yeah, and I’m his CO. It doesn’t matter if he hates me, he’ll do what I say because he doesn’t have a choice. You’re the one who has to work with him. You got a temper, handle it.”

Jack’s aware of the temper, which never seemed to be a problem before he started testosterone but it’s been a problem since. And he’s not the best judge of how big a problem, either. “Yes, sir,” he mumbles.

The training field passes by on their left. The trees are dark, absolutely still in the windless night, the sky a rich, deep purple above them. Reyes doesn’t slow. Are they going to the gym?

Inside the main building, but then right. Not the gym, then. “Where are we going?” Jack asks.

Reyes glances back. “Why the fuck are you asking me that, Morrison? You’ll be there in a minute.”

Jack bites back a few words his own about temper and lets out only a “sorry, sir.”

The halls are dimly lit, and he gives up on remembering the way out, still vaguely angry. At Reyes for reprimanding him, at King for being an asshole. At himself for utterly failing to impress his CO and, in fact, doing just the opposite. He wanted to prove himself. To show that his scores weren’t just numbers on a page.

Reyes stops outside a conference room and pushes the door open.

The lights glow on in warm orange. There are three cardboard boxes on the table, and Reyes pulls a knife from his belt and slits them open. “Okay, fold the uniforms and then find the tablets with the matching names and put ‘em in the bag with the right name on it.”

He pulls out a blue uniform and folds it up, laying it on the table with the name tag on top. Then he pulls out a second. Jack stares, uncomprehending. “Is this…”

“Your disciplinary action? Yeah.” He folds it over his arm, tucks the legs underneath, and glances up at Jack’s dumb gaze. “You should be thanking me. I could be making you run suicides out there while I sat back and watched. Come on, get to work.”

Jack comes forward and draws a uniform out of the box. “So you’re just—making me do your grunt work.”

A grin. “You got it.”

Jack folds, sets the uniform down, pulls out another. Once the surprise fades a little, the disjoint makes itself clear. “Hang on,” he says. “What’d you do to get stuck putting together welcome packages after hours?”

Reyes shrugs. “Got in a fight with the lieutenant and pissed in his beer.”

“You _what?”_

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding. That was a couple years ago,” he says. “Surprisingly, I didn’t piss anyone off this time around. The women were supposed to be flying in on Friday, but weather’s looking bad so they moved it up to tomorrow. And the old couple who usually do this kind of stuff were planning to be in Texas for their granddaughter’s baptism. So I told them I’d do it.”

“Oh. That’s nice of you.”

“Sure, if you want.” Reyes slides some of the uniforms over to make room. “Still making you help me.”

Jack chuckles. “To be honest, sir, suicides aren’t the best way to punish me. I like running.”

“Hm.” Reyes nods thoughtfully. “Good to know. So what should I do, then? Push-ups?”

The box is already half empty, and Jack peers in to pick up the next uniform. “Don’t mind those so much either, sir.”

“Huh. How about making you serve King breakfast in bed?”

Jack’s head snaps up but Reyes is laughing. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Look, I know there’s assholes in every unit, but just try and work with him, okay?”

“He threw his own squadmate under the bus,” Jack shoots back. “Doesn’t seem like he’s real interested in _working together.”_

“He’s just puffing himself up so everyone else thinks he’s the biggest guy in the room. You know how you beat him?” Reyes says. “Don’t be small.”

Jack keeps his mouth shut. _Why do I have to put in the work?_ he thinks.

They fold in silence for a little while. Then Reyes cuts open the box with the tablets and they start matching names. “So,” he says finally. “Why’d you take Liao to the infirmary today?”

Here it is. “Because he collapsed,” Jack replies.

“He said he could make it on his own.” Reyes digs another pair of tablets out of the box.

“I thought he might just not want to look weak, sir.”

Reyes sighs. “Tell me your assessment of his condition after the collapse.”

Jack’s heart starts to sink. “Immediately afterward, he looked a little altered and gave me verbal responses but couldn’t form words or focus his gaze on me. He couldn’t sit up on his own, so I had to sit him up against the fence. After five to ten seconds, he looked at me, started answering questions, and had normal tone and purposeful movements of all his extremities.”

“Did you think he could make it on his own?” Reyes asks.

“Probably,” Jack mumbles.

“So why did you take him to the infirmary?”

“I don’t know! It seemed like the right thing to do.”

Reyes’s eyes skate over the arranged uniforms, and he sets down one of the tablets. “Do you think what you did was noble?”

Jack stares.

“Well?” He leans across the table and puts the other tablet down. “Come on, I’m not gonna yell at you.”

“I don’t know.” He does know. “Yeah, I guess.”

Reyes grunts. “You gotta get rid of that, Morrison. The SEP doesn’t give a shit about ‘no man left behind,’ first of all. And second, you _knew_ he’d be fine. You knew and you did it anyway, so either you didn’t trust him or you just wanted to make yourself feel good. And now you’re here with me instead of sleeping and Liao’s still fine.” He digs in the box again. “I get it, I really do. But here, in the SEP, you need to use your head. All right?”

It’s strange to hear, and Jack bucks against it instinctually. “What so I’m supposed to just—ditch my squadmates when things get bad?”

Reyes glares at him. “Is that what I fucking said?”

Jack grimaces. “No, sir. Sorry, sir.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He goes back to what he was doing. “You’re a smart kid, Morrison. Just gotta use it.”

 _“Kid?”_ Jack says, incredulous. “I’m twenty-three.”

“Yeah, I got a whole year on you.” Reyes grins. “So I can call you whatever the hell I want.”

They’re finished before long, and they pack the bags back into the boxes, Jack following Reyes out to the front door again. They part there, because Reyes probably lives in some fancy officer’s quarters. When Jack gets back to the barracks most of the soldiers are in bed, but as he climbs up to his bunk Liao wakes, sitting up. “Hey, that was quick.”

Jack lets himself down again. “Yeah, it wasn’t bad.”

“What’d he make you do?”

Jack glances up. Reyes might not want his good deed known, not when he’s still establishing himself as their CO. “Just some administrative stuff.”

“Damn. Lucky you.”

“Yeah.” Jack lowers his voice even further. “Anyone give you shit while I was gone?”

“Ah.” He waves a hand. “King tried, but Lewis told him to lay off. It was fine.”

“Hm.” Jack starts up the ladder again. “Night, Liao.”

“Night.”

_Don’t make enemies on day fucking two, Morrison. Use your head._

He’s not _trying_ to make enemies. But he has to defend the people around him, at the very least.

Jack tucks the pillow under his head. If it’s a choice between making enemies and rolling over, he knows what he’ll choose.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Added some story tags, most notably dysphoria and menstruation, so heads up in that regard.
> 
> There are definitely typos and I'm sorry

His secret doesn’t last the week.

The next day he hangs back, goes to do something else between the end of training and hitting the showers. So no one is there when he shows up. But he knows it’s stupid to put it off, so the day after he takes a shower with everyone else and a couple of people catch sight of his crotch and stare, but most of them just glance or don’t notice at all. Then he’s turning off the shower head and walking back to his locker and it’s done, everything went fine. He fishes his clothes out—

“Shit, Morrison, you got a pussy?”

Jack freezes, but smooths over the panic and turns. “Don’t get so excited, King, you’re not my type.”

King’s naked even though he really doesn’t need to be. “What, you looking for some dick?” He grabs his junk. “Best in town, right here. I can work you over _real_ good.”

Jack sighs. “Maybe you misheard—“ He widens his eyes a little and enunciates. “I don’t find you attractive and I have zero desire to have sex with you.”

“Aw, come on.” King clasps his chest. “Don’t be like that. It’s okay, everyone’s got needs.”

Jack snorts. “Pretty sure your dick isn’t on that list.” He plucks his briefs from the locker and steps into them. “So I'm going to get dressed."

"Okay, but you ever find yourself all wound up with nowhere to go, you just hit me up. I'll take good care of you."

Jack ignores King and continues getting dressed, forcing himself to keep his back turned. When his trainers are on he looks up at last, and King is gone.

Liao was waiting at the door and follows him out, hissing, “What the fuck was that?”

Jack shrugs."Whatever. There's always one guy like that."

Liao flaps the hem of his shirt, fanning his stomach. Heatwave hasn't broken yet. “Fuck, man, that was bullshit. I mean, you looked like you were handling it, so I didn’t—“

“No, it's fine, I get it.”

Liao leans in conspiratorially. “Do you need me to kick his ass for you? I bet if I got the jump on–"

"Liao." Jack grins. "It's fine. With any luck he’ll get bored of me in a day or two."

"Yeah, well, what if he doesn't?" Liao mutters.

Jack claps him on the back."Then we can kick his ass together."

At dinner Lewis makes the same offer. Jack graciously turns him down.

King doesn't get bored. It's not all the time–never in front of Captain Reyes–but in the barracks or in the showers (looming suddenly, asking _hey, when did you get your tits lopped off,_ and Jack patiently explaining that “lopped off” was inaccurate and describing the surgical technique in detail), King has his target picked out. If there’s an upside, it’s that he’s not going after Liao anymore.

The injections start to suck more. One round has everybody writhing in their bunks in pain; the next round they don’t have the energy to blink, much less writhe. Reyes always comes to check on them, although it’s clear he’s on the same schedule; Jack watches him stumble out of the barracks, legs buckling with every step, and tries to call out to offer help. But his lips and tongue won’t move and all he can produce is a grunt.

They’re running simulations by that point. Sometimes against private contractors, if they need a lot of people; other times against the other SEP squads. They’re good with the former, but in the latter their record isn’t great. With Reyes at the helm they scrape out a couple of wins; left to their own devices, they come up with a string of losses that make Reyes’s face darken, his lip curling back in an angry snarl. _Work together,_ he tells them. _Work fucking together. You’re not paying attention to each other._

He’s probably right. Jack’s chatter with Liao, Lewis, and couple of the other guys is way higher than it is with King and his crew. So he tries to amend it, but King always overwrites his suggestions, and Jack does the same with King’s because his own ideas are better (most of the time—he thinks) and they lose the next couple and Reyes is furious.

Not like before. Jack sits with the rest of the squad in the debriefing room, the shame so thick he could choke on it. Reyes doesn’t shout or snarl. His voice is even. “Your lack of battlefield awareness is truly fucking astounding.”

He lets it sink in, scanning the defeated squad. “Does anyone want to claim responsibility for this loss?”

Silence. Jack’s eyes flick up to King, finds King gazing back at him. It _wasn’t_ his fault—not necessarily, King must fucked up too—

“I will, sir,” Liao says.

Jack looks over sharply. What the fuck? Reyes arches an eyebrow and waits.

“I could tell we weren’t communicating enough, or that—that we weren’t updating each other on our movements,” Liao continues— _that I didn’t tell King I wasn’t following his plan,_ Jack thinks— “but I didn’t speak up about it. I should have said something.”

Reyes nods. “Yeah, you should have. Should have kicked Morrison in the ass when he decided to do his own shit instead of working with the fucking team. And you, Taylor, should have done the same thing with King. Since neither of them wants to fucking own up to me, let alone to each other.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Jack mutters, tapping his fingers on the tabletop.

 _“That._ ” Reyes halts, takes in a deep breath and lets it out. “That is not fucking enough. You know why you’re here? All of you? To save the fucking world. And if you can’t even save your own fucking team in a _simulation,_ well, shit. You’re not gonna do a very good fucking job, are you?”

“No, sir,” Jack mumbles.

Reyes is silent for a moment, regarding them; then he runs a hand over his shorn hair. “We’re off sims for a week.” He turns and goes to the door. “Co-op exercises until then. If we’re still losing when we get back on sims, I will be making cuts. Is that understood?”

A round of affirmations. Reyes leaves them, and Jack rises from his seat, letting out a long breath.

“Well, that sucked,” Lewis murmurs.

“Yeah, it fucking did,” Jack notes.

“One thing’s for sure.” Lewis follows Jack into the hall. “I’m getting on your ass next time. And you better fuckin’ listen.”

Jack rubs his eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”

The next day is another injection and the headache is so bad they shut off all the lights in the barrack and lie there in their beds, the whole squad breathing as quietly as possible because the sound is an ice pick straight to the brain. At least only five or six people throw up. Reyes, as always, comes to check on them, pushing his shades up on his head as he slurs out a weak hello. But the next day he rouses them at six in the morning again and they’re back to work.

The co-op stuff isn’t so bad. They’re not competing against other squads, and Reyes seems to make a point of keeping the teams mixed up; Jack is rarely assigned with Lewis or Liao, and far more often he finds himself hauling King’s two hundred and fifty pounds over a crystalcrete wall, or being lifted up by King onto a low crossbeam. The midweek injections just make them kind of achy all over, and Jack’s expecting a nice day off until Reyes shows up around two pm and orders fifty laps.

Somehow it actually works. King stops sniping at him in the shower, and Jack stops getting reflexively pissed whenever King crosses his field of vision. On Saturday they run two sims to prep them for Sunday’s versus another squad. In the morning he comes up against Liao and very nearly gets his ass kicked; but he manages to disappear into the woods and pull off a very satisfying ambush two minutes later, and Liao laughs as he curses Jack, holding the spot in his side where the fake plastic knife got him. Jack grins and waves goodbye before he dashes off to the objective. He meets Lewis and King en route, and together they take the win.

Reyes gives them a pep talk in the afternoon. _Doing well,_ he says, and even almost cracks a smile. Then they split up into their new teams and head out by van to the next site. Liao sits next to Jack, arms folded. “Gonna get you back for that.”

“We’re on the same team this time, Liao,” Jack reminds him.

“Maybe not _now.”_ Liao nods to himself. “But someday when you’re not expecting it.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Gonna catch you when you’re sleeping.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Spray shaving cream on your hand and tickle your nose.”

“Uh-huh.”

Lewis leans over from further down the bench. “I’ll bring the shaving cream.”

Jack stares at him in mock incredulity. “Never took _you_ for a traitor.”

They’ve been to this site before—close to a square mile of fake bombed-out buildings. The exercise will be tougher with teams of six instead of twelve; there’ll be a lot of solo assignments. But as long as they get the “explosive” package planted at the main objective, they should get enough points to win the day. The defending team has assets to protect all over the base—a few likely deactivated for the smaller teams.

Jack expects to be low on backup. That’s fine. He can operate by himself.

So he goes out into the empty city, his allies’ positions glowing in pale green on the homolog. He swipes the map down into his watch and advances.

It’s slow. It has to be, with all that space between objectives, so few eyes on the ground. Jack has the package at his belt, and he creeps through deserted buildingsalone, keeping up with the radio chatter from his squadmates. There are spurts of gunfire from across the compound—rubber bullets, but the shots are still loud.

A couple of failed forays. Jack goes in with Liao once, Martez another time, and they’re repelled, escaping without getting tagged (that’s points for the other team—although every passing minute is points for them too). Finally Lewis’s voice comes through the radio. “This ain’t working, but I got a proposal. Jack, you like one-vee-twoing guys in close quarters, right?”

Jack, sitting in a dusty, three-walled room, lets out a startled laugh. “At this point, why the hell not?”

Lewis gives them his plan. Jack asks a couple of questions and then makes his way toward the main objective.

It’s in the basement of the fanciest building in the park—because they put the most effort into it, yes, but also because it’s been made up to look like an apartment complex for the upper class, with heavy furniture, shattered glassware, and ruined belongings scattered throughout. There’s also a bar lined in smashed mirrors and a ballroom that’s largely intact but for the giant pile of crystalcrete chunks in the middle.

All in all, Jack loves it. It’s a fun place to practice and he wishes the squad spent more time there instead of in tactics lectures.

He approaches from the west. The first floor is all blocked off here, but there’s a window on the second floor that puts him less than ten yards from the stairs to the basement. If the other team is at all competent—and they are—they’ll know about it.

Jack takes a deep breath and clambers up over the rubble sticking out of the first-floor window, grabbing the molding above and heaving himself up until he’s crouched just below his entrance.

He stops and listens for a second. If they did post a guard, he might have been heard. Maybe a scrape from inside—Jack isn’t sure, so he waits another moment and then sticks his helmet up over the will.

A bust of bullets and the helmet is knocked out of his hand. Looks like they posted a guard. Low, rapid chatter into a radio. Jack takes one of the small spheres from his belt, twists it in his fingers, waits two seconds, and throws.

He’s almost too eager following it in—the flashbang detonates just as he grabs the sill to heave himself over. The guy inside (Taylor, Jack notes) fires a spray of bullets, but he’s blinded and blinking and Jack gets below it easily. Might be able to do this fast, and he dives forward—

Taylor swings the rifle, clipping his jaw. Jack skates back and takes stock of the situation.

Different props here than last time—there’s an overturned couch to the right with a hunk of crystalcrete beside it, and a smashed night table at the other end, a fallen coatrack with a pile of coats beyond. Okay, he can work with that.

There are two of them. Jack knows that because in a situation like this they’ll play man-to-man, and Lewis put four people on the other objectives. The second is probably still below, guarding the basement stairs. Taylor lays down cover fire while he waits for his sight to come back, but Jack has ducked behind the slab of rubble beside the couch; he sidles down, snatches up the night table, and hurls it.

A snarled curse. Jack follows up, darting forward and throwing his shoulder into Taylor’s gut.

Taylor drops the rifle and engages.

They have a few quick exchanges—Jack at a disadvantage in range because he’s so goddamn short, but he keeps moving, pulling Taylor back around the fallen couch, over the rubble. Taylor is focused and cautious; in man-to-man, staying alive is the most important thing. His hand drifts down toward his knife once; but he thinks better of it. Smarter to risk only injury, as long as Jack is displaying the same caution. Taylor gets points for every second the main objective is safe.

It would be more advantageous, statistically, for Jack to up the stakes and draw his own knife. But he doesn’t.

Out from behind the rubble, into the open room. Taylor rushes him, and Jack circles back just far enough to grab the night table he threw earlier and swing it. But Taylor grabs the edge and shoves, putting Jack off-balance; another shove sends him o the ground, but he curls up under the table and hears Taylor back off. That’s fine, as long as he isn’t going for his rifle again—and he isn’t, because Jack made sure to fall between it and Taylor. He uncurls, backs up in a crouch, and pats his belt—feels the smooth, narrow cylinder of the package, still there—

Taylor’s eyes snap to it, and he barks out, “King! He’s got the package!”

King, huh? Even more of a size advantage over him than Taylor. If they secure the package, the sim’s over. Offense can’t get enough points to win.

One-vee-two. He _can_ do it, but it would be nice to knock one out of the game quick. He charges again, firing off another flurry of blows. Taylor protects his head, takes a couple in the gut.

Then Jack oversteps and Taylor wraps him up.

It’s a good headlock but he gets his right hand inside it to take some of the pressure off his neck, his body held up tight to Taylor’s chest. Okay. He raises his boot and stomps hard on Taylor’s toes—again and again and again. Taylor’s feet stutter but he doesn’t fall. Jack keeps stomping and struggling, reaching back with his left hand.

He can’t reach his own knife easily in this position He’s right-handed. But Taylor isn’t.

Jack finds the knife hilt. Taylor realizes a half-second later and releases the chokehold to stop him—but Jack draws the knife and makes a blind stab, feels the fake blade retracting into the handle.

_“Fuck.”_

Jack turns. Taylor’s hands are up, and he heads for the door just as King appears in the threshold, rifle raised. They wait, frozen and silent, for Taylor to leave; then from the hall he calls out “Go!” and Jack dives behind the rubble as the rubber bullets whiz past him. King’s boots tap on the smashed wooden floor, waiting. Jack retrieves another flashbang from his belt, cooks it, and throws.

It’s loud even with his ears covered, but he follows through anyway, slipping around the rubble and charging. The burst of bullets is high and late, and Jack goes in knife-first. But King swings the rifle and Jack has to take a step back and try another angle. King’s still squinting but he uses the rifle to defend himself, and Jack gets in a few superficial hits but nothing that puts King out of the game, and with every passing second the flashbang wears off further.

Then the rifle butt whips out and smashed into his cheek. He staggers but makes a grab, fingers closing around the barrel. It’s hot and hotter when King fires, but Jack shoves the barrel away and manages not to get shot. Then a knee rams into his stomach and he buckles—swipes up with the knife, feels cloth catching on the plastic blade. A clatter as King abandons the rifle, and Jack scrambles away to get some space as King draws his own knife and advances.

The stakes are up now. A good hit with a knife isn’t just a bruise to shake off, it’s a ticking timer. Or, in this case, an ejection from the sim. And Jack still has the package on his belt. If they don’t take the main objective, they’ll lose. He slides back around the couch; his heel catches one of the fallen coats and drags it with him. King clocks it, to his credit. There’s a sort of standoff —Jack happy to prolong it so King can dwell on his fallen comrade as he corrals Jack back toward the window. But it doesn’t last long.

King lunges. Jack drops his weapon, makes the two-handed grab, jams his hip into King’s, and throws him.

That’s one way to counter a guy with a seventy-pound advantage. King flips over fast but Jack swipes the coat up into his hands and wraps it around King’s head. King reaches blindly, catching Jack’s ankle and yanking.

He goes down and grabs at the coat, twists so it tightens around King’s face. A hard chop hits him in the chest and he rolls back with a grunt, grabbing the windowsill to haul himself up. By the time he’s ready King is upright again and the coat discarded.

Something’s off here. A catch in the animosity they’d smoothed over, a friction that wasn’t there when this fight started. King is angry at having lost that exchange, the cool, collected look he had on his face earlier replaced by an ugly downturn of the corner of his mouth, his eyes narrowed with violent intent; and Jack a little too satisfied about winning it. They’re supposed to be comrades, like they’ve been this whole week, and this is supposed to be just a simulation with no consequences for failure.

But Jack wants to win. He wants to beat King.

_Use your head, Morrison._

Not now.

Their weapons are lost somewhere but neither bothers to look for them. King launches forward. Jack pivots, lets him collide with the wall and push off of it, fires off a strike that’s blocked with a musclebound forearm. Then he’s dodging, focusing on his feet, making distance to offset King’s range. Recognizes the combo from their training sessions last week—spots the hole where he can slide in the counter, and it enters like a knife through flesh, his palm socking into the bottom of King’s chin. That’ll knock his teeth together.

But King’s focus doesn’t break. Normally a hit like that would stun a guy at least for a half-second, but Jack’s felt it too, how the drugs hold steady his rattled brain when a punch slips past his guard. King’s knee drives into his side and he starts to buckle but resists, gets his hands up to shove away the grab and retreats.

They break apart. King’s breathing is even and slow, and Jack finds himself only a little tired from running around the complex all afternoon. _Super soldiers._ He understands it more now. They’ve had…what, six rounds of drugs? Seven? Each incremental—King initiating again, Jack defending, bare knuckles scraping past his cheek—but cumulative, because the changes are real. He’s _strong._ He steps into the next strike, hip rotating, his hand jabbing into King’s xiphoid; but it only makes him stumble, and he’s back a second later with a good, hard jab to Jack’s chest. Another one that should set him off-balance, but his focus is on a higher level now and pierces straight through it. King spots the combo coming and blocks, but his eyes widen minutely. He’s surprised too.

They can’t bring each other down. That’s the message that passes between them, fleeting and unwelcome. Because Jack _needs_ to win. King’s laid off of him but that’s not enough. Jack has to show him who’s the better soldier here, because that’s what King thinks he has and Jack wants to take it from him. Only he doesn’t have much time left to do it.

He attacks.

Less attention now to defending himself. Whatever King dishes out, his enhanced body can take. King responds in king; Jack’s body blows thud into him and he ignores them, grabs Jack and hurls him into the broken chunk of crystalcrete.

It _hurts,_ Jack senses that. But he doesn’t care. King is coming so Jack heaves himself off the ruble and punches him in the nose—aims for it, but King swivels and the blow splits open his cheek instead. He wraps a hand in Jack’s uniform shirt and hurls him to the ground, stomping, but Jack catches the foot between his arm and body and rolls. King twists, agile, and crouches over Jack’s body, boxing him in the ear. Fucker. He rolls back, wary of King getting him in a mount, and reaches up—misses King’s belt. Then he loses the foot, scrambling back as King tries for the mount—

A faint whine in his earpiece—and King’s too. Reyes’s voice. “The sim is over! Main objective was taken.”

King’s jaw drops. “What the—“ He stares down at Jack. “You have the fucking package!”

Jack grins and pats his belt. “Not anymore.” He rises. “Chucked it out the window while you had that coat wrapped around your head.”

King doesn’t explode in rage, only absorbs the information, putting his hands on his hips and nodding. “Hm.” He jerks his head. “Let’s get back.”

That was…less hostile than expected. Jack descends the stairs and meets Liao on the first floor, high-fifing him. “That was some good shit.”

“Hey, man, I had the easy part.” He grins back. “Sure as fuck worked, though.”

Their missing sixth man, waiting below the window to retrieve the package and sneak around to the first floor entrance and then the unguarded basement stairs. Lewis’s plan, and risky, if Jack couldn’t handle Taylor and King; but it worked. Lewis sweeps him up in a bear hug when they reunite.

The van ride is relaxed on the way back. Reyes drives with one hand, resting his other arm on the open window. The air is cooler now that the sun’s getting low, and in the back of the van the mood is high, both teams congratulating each other on a battle well fought. Only King is quiet, smiling when smiled at but otherwise staring out at the rolling fields of tall, dry grass and the dimming sky above.

The debrief is short and sweet. Reyes praises both sides and goes step-by-step through the tactics. At the end he tells them all to keep their eyes open always—does’ mention King’s mistake specifically, but it’s understood. King grimaces and nods with the rest of them.

Jack stands to leave but Reyes calls out, “Morrison, hang on a sec.”

So he waits as the others file out of the briefing room. Reyes folds his arms, leaning up against the table. “You let Taylor get you in a headlock. You baited him into it.”

“Yes, sir,” Jack says without hesitating. “I thought my chances were better doing that than trying to take on two guys at once.”

“Hm. Risky.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Then again, so was going in alone in the first place.”

“They were putting up a good defense, sir. We all decided it was worth it.”

“You know, one of the things the guys in charge don’t like about me is that I’m to reckless.” Reyes straightens and faces Jack. “So I guess what I’m saying is be careful.”

Jack lifts an eyebrow. “They still gave you a command position, didn’t they? Sir.”

Reyes barks out a laugh. “Fine. Just do me a favor and try to use your—“

Jack half-grins. “Use my head, yeah, I know.”

No reply. Reyes is watching him, even and cool. Jack swallows. “I’m sorry, sir. I understand.”

“Good.” Reyes brushes past him, claps a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s get some dinner.”

——

Things aren’t so bad.

Liao doesn’t faint again. In a couple of weeks he’s keeping up without any trouble at all. Jack still beats him at hand-to-hand most of the time, which is nice. Lewis beats both of them but he’s six foot three. Jack can take him down in sims, but not when it’s just the two of them on a gym mat.

Reyes is six one and can beat everybody, every time—almost every time, and when he doesn’t Jack can tell he’s taking it easy. Sometimes he joins them in sims against other squads and he always refuses to go in for close combat, unless they’re losing bad and then he’ll go take someone out to give them a better shot.

Watching him fight is…something else. On the mats it’s beautiful. His body moves so easily through the strikes and grapples, like back in Indiana when Jack’s dad would flip open the sluice gates and the water would glitter down the plateaus and corners of the channel, fast and clear and sure. Reyes’s face never displays surprise or even effort—he _knows_ how to fight like the rest of them know how to walk or breathe. It’s calming, in a way, to watch him.

The sims are a different matter.

Everything is taped by camera or drone, so Jack can watch the videos later in the library, how Reyes prowls through the battleground, making the terrain belong to him—using buildings like weapons to trap his opponents, sinking into shadows as if they were made to hide him. When he appears it’s like a ghost materializing out of nowhere to take apart his opponent with none of the grace he demonstrates in the gym. Instead it’s a brutal efficiency, a knife to the back or gut—sometimes a headlock from which he releases them just before unconsciousness and then helps them up afterward. Jack can’t tell the rhyme or reason for why he leaves his weapon sheathed sometimes. Maybe he’s bored.

It’s a little frightening. Jack’s glad he’s never been on the receiving end of it and also wishes he were that good. (He’s _good,_ but Reyes is on another level.)

One evening after he finishes reviewing the sim videos from that day, he finds Liao and Lewis sitting at the library exit reading tech briefings. Not unusual, but they stand when he approaches and follow him out.

“Uh.” Jack glances up. “Hey.”

“Jack. My man.” Lewis plants a large hand on his shoulder. “Watching sim vids again?”

“Yeah.” Jack shrugs. “You know I need work on my tactics.”

“Let me rephrase.” Lewis gives him a meaningful look. “Watching sim vids of Captain Reyes again?”

Jack gapes dumbly for a moment; then he splutters out, “What do you—I didn’t—he’s a good soldier! I could learn a lot from him!”

On his other side Liao lets out a sigh. “Jack, you need to take it down a notch. We’ve seen the way you stare at him. And if we noticed, somebody else is gonna notice before long. Like him.”

Lewis chuckles. “That guy? I’m sure he spotted it way before either of us did.”

Jack covers his face. “Lay off, okay? It’ll be fine.”

Liao nods, plainly unconvinced; Lewis shakes his head and tuts.

Fearful of embarrassing himself, Jack tries to take their advice to heart. It’s harder than it sounds. Reyes is…magnetic, kind of. Must be part of why they made him a captain. But nothing bad comes of it, so it’s fine.

Then it’s July, a full month since they started the program. The shots are making their effects known even outside combat. Jack’s got more energy than ever, and his black eyes and fat lips from training heal up in a couple of days. A little scary, if he’s honest with himself; but it feels _good._

He’s not expecting the day off when the 4th rolls around, and there isn’t even an acknowledgement, Reyes putting them through the same paces as he ever does. What Jack’s _really_ not expecting is the knock on their door at eight in the evening, when the sun’s finally dipped behind the horizon, and Reyes appearing in the threshold. Everyone scrambles to their feet.

Reyes surveys them, then jerks his head. “Get out here. We’re having an evening sim.”

“Where are we going, sir?” Lewis asks.

“Out to the landing pads.” Reyes hoists the hand he’d been hiding behind the wall. It’s holding a twelve-pack of beer. “The plan is to get drunk and pretend the fireworks we got a hold of aren’t complete shit.”

Whoops go up from the whole squad. Jack joins in, laughing.

On the way out he spots other squads crossing the base. Liao jogs up to Reyes and leans in nervously. “Uh, sir—please don’t be offended, but I don’t drink, so—“

“I know, Liao.” Reyes claps him on the back. “I brought root beer.”

The landing pads are full of people—as well as smoking grills and big, blocky coolers. Jack flips one open to find it stocked with yet more beer. Reyes has disappeared but comes back wheeling a cart stacked with folding chairs, and they set up a big heating coil (it’s no bonfire, but it glows and they can turn the heat way down, which is nice; even at sunset it’s still boiling out). Everyone gets a beer and a hot dog or hamburger and sits back to watch. Somewhere someone’s blasting the sounds of a marching band playing patriotic songs.

The fireworks…kind of suck, little spits of green and gold right, some blue screamers and a line of Roman candles that go off with a series of _pops._ But they’re met with raucous cheers and shouts of _“God bless the U-S-of-fuckin’-A!”_

There’s a lot of drinking. Lewis shotguns a can of beer, so the rest of the squad follows suit, of course; Jack holds his own, and Reyes does two at a time. Liao just ends up covered in root beer.

They split up a bit as the night goes on. King and a few others have headed out to the middle of the landing pads where there’s music playing and representatives from the men’s and women’s squads dancing. The rest, half the squad plus Reyes, sit around the coil playing, at Lewis’s suggestion, Truth or Dare. (Lewis was drunk when he suggested it, and Reyes, drunker, endorsed it heartily—“a bonding experience,” he called it, and then giggled). Jack sort of feels like he’s eight years old again at a sleepover surrounded by a dozen other girls in pajamas, sleeping bags wrapped around them. He thinks of mentioning it but decides the rest of the guys probably don’t share that experience.

Martez is made to shotgun a beer while being held upside down—the closest they can get to a keg stand. Someone tries to make Liao drink a beer but Reyes intervenes even in his intoxicated state, so instead Liao has to go dance with one of the women soldiers while the rest of the squad shouts encouragement (or helpful advice). The other soldier is game for it and definitely doesn’t make it any easier on him. Jack’s glad, once again, that his boners are mostly invisible. Someone else asks Reyes about his test scores and Jack leans forward, his interest piqued; but Reyes shakes his head and slurs out something about “classified.”

They learn of Lewis’s worst dating experience (she brought her pet hamster in her purse and fed it from the table—Lewis so far gone he can barely get the story out in between wheezy laughter) and Reyes gets Taylor to admit that he has, in fact, sucked one of his squadmates’ dicks (not _this_ squad, it as two years ago) so of course the next time around Taylor asks if _Reyes_ has ever sucked one of his squadmates’ dicks, and Reyes thinks about it and asks if commanding officers count and the circle erupts in incredulous laughter.

“What can I say?” Reyes raises his hands, a half-empty can dangling from one of them. “I wanted to, he wanted to, we hid in the equipment shed for half an hour, it all worked out.”

Jack chuckles, resting his cool beer against his cheek.

He makes Lewis go up to one of the soldiers at the dance party and use the worst pickup line he knows (the “are you from Tennessee” one, as it turns out, which means he really needs to expand his repertoire). The rest of the squad watches the woman throw back her head and laugh at him. Lewis weaves back wounded, shaking his head. On his turn Jack picks dare so Lewis jabs a finger at him and goes, “You gotta make out with the captain.”

Jack freezes. That’s crossing several professional boundaries, although Reyes has already crossed those and more in the past, apparently. Reyes slaps his thigh and beckons. “Come sit on my lap, Jackie-boy.”

 _Jackie-boy?_ No one has ever called him that in his life. Reyes levels a grin at him. “You gonna make me wait?”

Jack’s been responsibly alternating his drinks with bottles of water and hot dogs, which means he isn’t drunk enough for this. But he rises, unsure, and sits cautiously—

Reyes’s arm is around his waist, one strong hand giving his ass a firm squeeze. He jumps, startled, but Reyes guides his head down and starts making out with him.

It’s very aggressive and kind of sloppy. Jack almost jerks away, caught off-guard; but the gentle pressure of Reyes’s hand on his neck stops him, and the making out itself keeps him there. Reyes is clearly into it. _Clearly._ Jack is also into it, despite his better judgement. It’s the fourth of July, everyone’s trashed, no one’s getting disciplined tonight unless somebody gets hurt. And anyway, it’s nice after his long fucking dry spell to have someone else’s tongue diving eagerly into his mouth. He doesn’t really know where to put his hands so he settles them at Reyes’s waist, which, as he knows well from the showers, is a little soft. Possibly from his apparent love of beer. Reyes chuckles against Jack’s mouth and then jams his tongue into it again. Definitely aggressive. So Jack submits to it, Reyes’s lips mauling his own.

Eventually he figures they should stop or it’s going to get awkward and may have already, so he breaks away and Reyes slaps his ass with a contented sigh. “Just what I needed.”

Jack wobbles back to his chair. Beside him Liao is bright red with the effort of suppressing his laughter.

Around midnight things taper off, because they still have to wake up at six in the morning and Reyes sends the squad to bed while he unsteadily starts folding the chairs back up and stacking them on the cart. Jack lingers, for a minute, watching Reyes nearly lose his balance and then grasp the cart for support, chuckling at himself. Okay. Jack comes over. “Here, let me help.”

Reyes rubs his eyes. “Morrison. I told you to go to bed.”

“Yeah, I know.” He picks up a chair and kicks the legs, folding it up.

“Are you trying to suck me—“ Reyes giggles. “Suck up to me.”

“Shit, I thought the kissing did that.” The chair clatters onto the cart.

“Uh…yeah. Sorry.” He rubs the stubble coating his cheeks. “Got, uh. Carried away. I just. Had a few too many and when I—“

“Hey, it’s okay.” Jack waves a hand. “I didn’t mind.”

Reyes snorts. “Yeah, I could tell.”

“Fuck off,” Jack mumbles.

Reyes has switched to gathering the dead beer cans and throwing them into the empty cooler. He can kneel for most of that, so he’s less likely to fall on his face. That’s good. Jack helps him heave the cooler onto the cart and together they start pushing it off the landing pads.

The night is quiet—a few murmurs from the other squads, the distant buzz of cicadas from the surrounding trees. They walk in comfortable silence for a bit. Then Reyes says, “I was top tens like you.”

Jack looks up.

“Every category,” Reyes continues. “Top tenth percentile, all except one.” He lifts an eyebrow. “Got any guesses?”

Jack thinks for a minute, then ventures a guess, hoping it won’t sound too much like an insult. “Teamwork?”

“Fuckin’ bingo.” Reyes gives him an approving nod. “I got a—I got a—“ His face splits in a grin, and then he bursts into laughter. “I got a _twenty-two._ Nineties in everything and then I got a—a twenty-fuckin’-two.I didn’t like the fuckin’ plan in the sim so I made my own. Only reason—“ Another burst of laughter, contained. “Only reason I even got that high was ‘cause some of the other guys went along with it. And we made good time on the objective with no casualties.”

Jack raises an eyebrow. “You…but you knew you were being evaluated, right? Like, _specifically_ on teamwork.”

He shrugs. “Better they find out then how I feel about stupid orders than be surprised later on.”

“Christ,” Jack mutters.

“I love this country, Morrison.”

Jack is quiet, waiting. Reyes pushes the cart, his skin a little sweaty, shining in the light of the half-moon. “My grandmother escaped a tyrant in Cuba and she came here and worked hard, really hard, even with all the unfair shit they heaped on her ‘cause her English was bad and she cleaned houses for a living. But her daughter went to a good school out west and has a job that’s hard but it keeps her comfortable and look at me. I get to serve my country. I get to protect it from the fucking machines.” They’re at the storage shed, so he pats his belt and pulls out the key fob. “I told them about all that and that’s why they let me in.”

 _I_ had _to tell them my big secret,_ Jack thinks. _And they almost rejected me for it._

They push the cart though the door. Reyes leaves the cooler full of empires outside, then grasps Jack by the arm. “Thanks. You’re a good guy, Morrison. Good soldier.” He turns and starts heading for the main building, waving one last time. “Any time you want your dick sucked, you just let me know.”

Jack stares after him, uncomprehending. Was…was that a joke? He sincerely can’t tell, what with what Reyes did to his mouth earlier.

Then he decides that he needs to wake up in just over five hours so he should probably forget about it and go to bed.

Everyone’s already asleep by the time he gets back, except for Liao, who hisses, “Hey.”

Jack strips his shirt off and yawns. “Hey.”

“What were you doing with the captain? Picking up where you left off?”

Jack flips him off. “Go to sleep, Liao.”

Liao chuckles. “Okay, man.”

Jack climbs into bed and closes his eyes.

——

Reyes shows up the next morning with his shades on again and whispers, “Let’s go.”

Most of the squad is miserable. Jack feels pretty okay. Lewis throws up on the way to breakfast.

They’re in no shape for shots so the next round is postponed ’till the weekend. Saturday afternoon everyone’s achy during lecture, and in the evening Jack feels something he hasn’t felt in years, a sharp, deep pain in his lower abdomen.

Cramps.

It stops him in his tracks on the way back from the training field. Liao turns. “What’s up?”

Jack rests a hand over his abdomen. “Uh…nothing. Listen, I’ll catch up with you, okay?”

“What? Why?”

“It’s nothing, I’m fine.” Jack waves and heads for the main building.

He hates asking, the words practically foreign falling off his tongue. But the nurse ands him a brown paper bag and Jack thanks her and leaves, taking a peek inside. Two boxes of tampons for “moderate to heavy flow.”

He doesn’t know if he’s bleeding yet, but he’s got a bad feeling.

On the way back he rubs his arm where the little rod of the testosterone implant sticks out under his skin. It’s still working fine, he’s sure of it. Far more likely it’s the shots. But whatever bad side effects they get always wear off in a day or two, so he’ll just wait it out.

The showers are mostly empty but he keeps his thighs pressed together just in case. No blood spirals into the drain. Okay. Maybe it’s not so bad.

The last guy leaves. Jack stands alone by his locker, staring at the bag.

He reaches in and pops open the first box.

——

He’s bleeding.

Jack sits on the toilet, head in his hands. Thought he was supposed to be done with this shit. Apparently not. At least he’s well supplied.

Lewis and Liao are quiet at breakfast, which, as Jack learns, is because _he’s_ quiet. “Jesus, man, who pissed in your Cheerios?” Lewis asks.

Jack is at that very moment eating cereal, and he sets his spoon down, slightly put off. “It’s nothing, I’m fine.”

“Is it King again?” Liao leans in. “I bet me and Lewis could take him down easy if we catch him alone.”

“No, it’s not King.” Jack waves a hand. “Just feel like shit from the shots, still.”

That’s half-true at best—his muscles feel pretty good, it’s just the cramps. “Sorry, man,” Liao says, and rests a hand on his back. “Hope you feel better.”

“Yeah, me too,” Jack mutters.

Showers remain hazardous, so he changes his tampon just before and finds…not much bleeding. Maybe it’s just spotting. He snaps half the string off so no one sees it between his thighs. No one else seems to be having issues—there was no wincing when Reyes led them in suicides or set them up in sparring pairs. That was embarrassing, too—he lost to everyone, badly.

 _It’s going to be okay,_ he thinks. _It won’t last._

Better not. It’s distracting him. Stupid, really—he likes his body, no one’s giving him shit anymore. He knows the bleeding is just because he happens to be carrying around an extraneous organ. It doesn’t _mean_ anything.

It doesn’t mean anything.

The cramps wake him up that night.

It feels like his uterus is actively dying inside him. He curls up, making whined little grunts into his pillow, trying desperately not to wake anyone else. They were never this bad before, ever. It’s the damn shots. But this won’t last. They always wear off. The pain relents a little, and he heaves in breaths, releasing the sheet he had balled in his fist; then all of a sudden he’s in agony again, and he makes a choked sound into the pillow, praying Liao below him doesn’t wake up.

It’s on and off for some time. He manages to doze in between, checking the clock when the pain attacks again. 12:45, 1:37, 2:50, 4:05. When their alarm blares at six he cracks his eyes open, sore, exhausted, and caked in dried sweat.

Liao frowns when he descends the ladder. “Hey, man, you good?”

“Yeah, just didn’t sleep well.” He rubs his eyes. It’s not any worse than the awful headaches they all got a couple of weeks ago. It’s just lasting longer. He can handle it.

In the bathroom he finds that it’s definitely not just spotting.

The amount of blood that comes out of him is pretty impressive. It’s a miracle none of it got on his briefs. He puts in another tampon and resolves to check it again in three hours when the morning session’s done.

Breakfast is a chore. He doesn’t want to eat but does it anyway, only manages to put away half his normal portions. Lewis sits across the table, squinting at him.

Jack glances up, then pokes his sausages again. “What? I’m fine.”

“If you’re fine then I’m the Queen of Spain.”

“Does Spain even have a queen?”

“Exactly.”

“Really, though, you don’t look so good,” Liao puts in beside him. “You should swing by the infirmary.”

“God damnit, it’s just the stupid shots, it’ll wear off. Just get off my ass.”

In three hours the tampon is soaked through and Jack leans back on the toilet, his legs splayed, resting a hand on his forehead. He knows from past experience that bleeding this heavy means he’ll probably be bleeding for at least another few days, so he should get used to it. It just sucks, that’s all.

At least he can run. It even helps, he thinks, the ache in his lower belly loosening. Still sucks at sparring, and afterwards Reyes holds him back and asks, “Morrison, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

Jack grimaces. “I apologize, sir. I’ll practice m—“

Reyes cuts him off impatiently. “I don’t mean your fucking forms. You look like shit. What’s going on?”

“Still feeling the shots, sir,” he mumbles.

“Hm. You should go to the infirmary just in case.”

Fuck. “I think I’ll be all right, sir. They usually wear off pretty quick.”

Reyes considers him for another second, then nods. “Fine. But you’re off our evening session. Get some rest.”

“Sir, I can still—“

“For Christ’s sake, Morrison, I said _get some fucking rest_. Is that understood?”

Jack swallows. “Yes, sir.”

He tries to rest. His stomach feels tight and heavy, and the ache spreads all the way to his crotch and to his back. Once he almost throws up, tastes the thick, sour acid at the back of his throat. But he keeps it down. Midway through his uneasy nap he realizes he could really use some human contact, but he figures asking Liao or Lewis to cuddle him might come off as weird. He sighs at the ceiling, knees pulled up to his chest. That wouldn’t be a problem if they were all women.

He changes his tampon every two hours now. It probably wouldn’t soak through at three, but it’s better to be safe.

The next morning the pain is so bad he buckles during their daily laps and crashes to his knees, hands flat on the dry grass. The agony is worse than anything he’s felt before—any fistfight, any broken bone, certainly any menstrual cramps while he was still having them. He feels as if his stomach is being torn open, like shrapnel grenade has gone off inside him. But Liao is kneeling next to him and Reyes will be coming over so he swallows and forces himself to focus— _forces_ himself. Someone is talking—Liao. “—know you don’t want to, but you should really—“

Jack lets out a breath and says, in a voice far steadier than how he’s feeling right now, “Just got a bad muscle cramp all of a sudden. I’m all right.”

Then Reyes is there, crouching. “Morrison.”

“Sorry.” He cracks a smile. “I’m good, just got a cramp.”

Reyes grabs his face—firmly but gently, fingers cupped over his jaw, turning it. “You’re pale. You need to go the infirmary.”

“Sir, I think I’ll be—“

“God damnit, Morrison, are you ever going stop questioning my fucking orders? Go to the infirmary. _Now.”_

So Jack rises, refusing Liao’s help, and walks off the field. His legs are tingling, his stomach throbbing with pain, so he concentrates on keeping his gait as normal as possible—striding, not tottering, his balance as good as it can be.

At the infirmary they ask him what’s wrong and he says he’s been nauseous and not eating much, which is true if not the whole truth, and he refuses any blood tests so they just give him some anti-emetics and he sticks one under his tongue and stashes the rest in his pocket and leaves. He can get a little more lunch down than he did yesterday.

In the afternoon they set up an obstacle course in the training field and run it, and he’s exhausted and weak from hardly sleeping so his times are crap. At least the constant movement seems to be keeping the cramps at bay, even as he clumsily tumbles and staggers through the obstacles. Reyes pulls him out near the end and asks what the infirmary said, and Jack replies they didn’t say much of anything, which isn’t a lie, and Reyes sighs and tells him he’s off evening session again. Jack sits on the bench, the fabric of his shorts clenched in his balled fingers.

He helps clean up after. Two by two they take down parts and carry them back to the storage shed. Some of the guys trickle out early, but Jack doesn’t mind staying, because if he has to be pathetically weak while they’re actually doing the course, at least he can show he’s not just shirking. The mats come last, and Jack finds himself opposite King, each of them taking an end.

It’s fucking heavy. Jack grits his teeth and heaves, his legs wobbling a little; but he gets it in the air. And apparently he’s the one walking backwards, so he gets started—slowly, because he’s about this close to falling on his ass already. King doesn’t say anything, just glances up at him and then back down at the mat.

Across the grass. Jack’s breaths are harsh in his ears. Tired from the obstacle course and now this. But it’s the last piece. Almost done, and then he can eat and try to rest again while everyone else is at—

“So you’re skipping out again on evening session, huh, Morrison?”

Jack’s head whips up.

King is gazing at him, the hint of a smile on his face. “Must be nice. You cozy with the captain now? Bat your eyes at him and get a couple extra hours to lay around doing nothing?”

Jack can hardly keep up—where the fuck is this coming from? King has barely said two words to him since losing that sim. “I don’t…I’m not _cozy_ with Captain Reyes. He’s my CO. He’s _our_ CO.”

“Uh-huh.” King nods knowingly. “So you really need the time off then, is that it? Can’t handle the program?” He shrugs. “Maybe you’re just not _built for it.”_

Jack knows exactly what that means, and he halts, fury rising hot in his chest like steam. “You don’t know what you’re fucking talking about, King.”

“I don’t?” He cocks an eyebrow. “Well, your times today were shit and you’ve been getting your ass kicked in bouts. Just saying, there’s gotta be _some_ reason.”

“You think you’re better than me?” Jack snarls.

King grins. “I don’t know. We never finished what we started last time.”

Then the mat is on the ground and Jack is charging over it, King coming to meet him.

Jack launches the first combo—slow, hilariously slow, and King just goes around it, snapping a fist out into Jack’s jaw. His head whips to one side—focus there but bleary, and he sees the next blow coming and blocks, but it sends him stumbling back. From further down the field there’s a surprised shout.

Jack advances, enraged and uncaring how much he gets hurt as long as King gets hurt too. One of his hits lands, a shot to the ribs that doesn’t even have enough strength to push King back. King laughs, rich and full, and comes at him again.

He struggles to clock the strikes. One, dodge. Two, divert. Muscle memory bolsters him here—King’s strong, but he’s not very creative. Three, block.

The block throws him off-balance. He wavers, manages to keep his footing, and looks up just in time for King’s fist to land directly in his middle.

His abdomen seizes and he sobs with the pain, collapsing, boneless. His limbs scrape aimlessly over the mat. There’s something warm and wet on his inner thighs. Shapes in his blurry vision—a smaller and a larger one, the latter (that’s Lewis) shoving King back, shouting at him. Liao kneels next to him. “That’s it. You’re going to the infirmary.”

“No,” Jack gasps, and shakes his head. “It just—caught me off-guard. It just hurts. I’m all right.” He pushes himself up.

“Okay, man, but I’m still bringing you there. And I’m not taking no for an answer.”

“N—no.” Jack shakes his head vehemently. “Already went there. They said it was nothing.” His legs—he pulls those in, gets his feet under him, and rises.

His vision fills with white and black blots. There’s a tinny ringing in his ears, and Liao’s voice, alarmed. “Holy shit, are you bleeding?”

Jack takes a breath in to say something but never gets the chance before he blacks out.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought this story was going to be 3 chapters long but there will in fact be one more chapter after this one.

Jack gets bits and pieces after that, but not much more. He’s very tired.

His body is jarred in a steady _thud, thud, thud._ Someone’s voice above him. _“…get the fuckin’ captain!”_ A gust of cool air over him. Then, very soon after—he thinks—a tiny prick in his finger, and a little later a much more painful one in his arm. Then another _thud, thud, thud,_ but that’s different—those are rotor blades, and when he squints he spots the helicopter approaching. Or he’s approaching the helicopter. Voices shouting over the noise. _“…you sure this is allowed?” “I don’t give a shit, I’m getting on the goddamn heli, so make some fucking room!”_

There’s something red hanging above him. A bag of blood.

The rotors are still going. Someone’s talking again. _“It’s soaking through. Give me some more gauze.”_ Movement at the lower edges of his vision. His crotch feels uncomfortable. His legs are cold. _“What’s our ETA?”_ That’s another voice. Familiar. _“Thirty minutes, give or take.”_ “Thirty minutes? _He’s going to fucking bleed out.” “We’ve got another unit in the cooler, and with all due respect, sir, this is our job. He’ll get there alive.”_

Jack tries to say something but he just mumbles instead. It’s lost in the sound of the rotor blades.

Later he’s in a quiet, dim place and there’s something cold in his crotch. _“Wow.”_ Unfamiliar. _“How old is he? Twenty-three?” “Yeah.” “And he’s got the implant in his arm? That’s bizarre.” “Can you fucking—“ “Yes, he needs to go now.”_

He’s tired.

——

When he wakes up he’s still tired and no one is talking around him.

Jack stares at the ceiling and tries to think. The ceiling is white. He’s lying in a bed. There are…things wrapped around his calves, squeezing them gently. Kind of weird…

Oh. He remembers those from the mastectomy. Supposed to keep him from getting clots in his legs while recovering from surgery.

His lower belly aches.

Not the cramps. Just a deep, dull, persistent ache. He’s in a hospital of some kind, that much is clear—long curtain to his left, a wall-mounted screen, a window outside displaying the night sky. And he’s wearing a cloth gown. So he…he fought King, then fainted, which is fucking embarrassing. Then he needed to go to a hospital, which is incredibly fucking embarrassing.

Maybe it would be good to figure out what happened. He rolls his head to the side and spots a low table there—finds the call bell on it and presses. In a couple of minutes a nurse enters the room smiling. “Good evening, Mr. Morrison! My name is Gina, I’m the nurse who’s taking care of you.”

“Hi.” His mouth is dry and sticky, and he swallows. “Uh…can you tell me what happened to me?”

“Sure! It looks like you had some bad uterine bleeding, so they flew you in here—Barrett Memorial, if you’re not familiar. But they couldn’t stop the bleeding, so they had to do emergency surgery and remove your uterus. That was about twenty-four hours ago.”

Jack stares at her, then raises a hand—weakly pulls the sheet down and the gown up. The only wounds there are two dime-sized holes, each a few inches from his navel.

“It was a laparoscope-assisted vaginal hysterectomy,” Gina puts in. “With…” She lifts her tablet and scrolls for a second. “Vaginal biosheet reconstruction, so the recovery will be a little longer than normal. You should be able to leave here in the next day or two, but you’ll be off any activity for about a week.”

Jack frowns, struggling to understand. “Re…reconstruction?”

“Yes, to replace the portion of the vagina lost—“

“It’s gone?”

He rests a hand on his abdomen. Gina is quiet a second and then leans down, squeezing his arm gently. “I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to ask you. You weren’t conscious and the doctor thought that delaying surgery any longer would put your life in danger.”

“Oh.” Jack rubs his forehead with his right hand—there’s an IV in his left arm. “Geez.”

“Do you want me to call your friend? He just left to get some rest, he’s been with you ever since you arrived.”

Jack frowns. “My friend?”

“Yes, Gabriel?”

Who the hell is Gabriel? At his look of mystification Gina elaborates. “Shaved head, Latino, tall—compared to me, anyways—sort of an impatient guy—“

“Captain _Reyes?”_ Jack blurts out.

“Right! I’m sorry, I’d forgotten his last name.”

Reyes is here? But he’s got a whole squad to take care of. Better talk to him, then, so he can get back ASAP. “Yeah, yeah. Call him.”

“All right. Can I get you anything else? Water? Pudding?”

“Both of those sound pretty good.” He smiles faintly. “Thanks.”

“Okay.” She returns the smile. “Just ring the bell if you need anything.”

“Wait—“

Gina pauses. “Something else?”

“Were they…” Jack swallows. “Did they call me ‘he?’ The doctors and—the people who saw me?”

“Everyone I spoke to did,” she tells him. “I don’t know about the surgeon. Do you want me to find out?”

“No, it’s okay,” he mumbles.

“Are you sure? It wouldn’t be a problem.”

“It’s fine.”

“Okay.” She nods. “Do you want to see the on-call doctor tonight? She can probably give you more information about your condition.”

He wants to see Reyes. Doesn’t think he could handle any more right now. “Uh—maybe I’ll just wait ’till the morning.”

“Sure. I’ll call your friend.”

Then she’s gone.

Jack stares at the ceiling. He’s still tired. He shuts his eyes just for a second.

“Hey, Morrison.”

He opens his eyes. Someone’s holding his arm.

Jack reaches over and grasps Reyes’s hand, squeezing it. Reyes chuckles but doesn’t pull away. “So you _are_ awake.”

Jack finds himself bizarrely afraid, even though, as far as he can tell, his life’s not in danger anymore. “Captain Reyes.”

“Thanks for waking up just as I was about to get some real sleep, by the way.”

Jack figures he should probably let go of Reyes’s hand but doesn’t want to. “Thanks for coming.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Um—why _did_ you come, anyway? You got eleven other guys to worry about.”

He shrugs. “I’m your CO, I’m responsible for you. Anyway, I left Lewis in charge.”

That answer doesn’t make a lot of sense but Reyes doesn’t like being questioned so Jack leaves it. He tries to think of something to say. _I know the shots almost killed me but I need to be there. I need to stay. Please don’t cut me from the program._

“Did anyone tell you what happened?”

Jack shakes his head weakly. “Not really.”

“Well, I talked to the doctors here and at the base, so I can shed some light on it, if you want."

“Yeah, sure.”

Reyes leans forward. His hand is warm against Jack’s arm. “It’s called adenomyosis.”

Jack is silent, waiting.

“So your endometrium is supposed to grow up. Out of your uterine wall. But, yeah, it was the shots. Some fucked-up tropic effect they didn’t catch during testing. So instead of growing up and out, your blood vessels and glands grew down and in. Into the muscle, and fast. And then the shots wore off and all that tissue died and then you bled. You wanna know how much you bled?”

“How much?” Jack mumbles.

Reyes gestures. “You’re a young guy. Your hemoglobin’s supposed to be around sixteen.” He taps the arm of his chair. “It was five point five.”

“Oh,” Jack says quietly.

“Anyway, that’s why you passed out. And that’s why they had to take your uterus out, because they couldn’t stop the bleeding.” He smiles a little. “I was gonna congratulate you on that, but I figured I should ask first.”

Jack thinks about it and shrugs. “I don’t know. I didn’t really care that much about it. Kinda feels like getting my appendix out, to be honest.”

“Hm.” Reyes’s thumb taps Jack’s forearm. “So you must have known you were bleeding.”

“Yeah.”

“A lot.”

 _The blood literally falling out of him every time he changed his saturated tampon—_ he shifts a little. “Yeah.”

“And you didn’t tell anyone.”

He swallows around the hard cherry-pit in his throat. “No.”

“Fucking Christ, Morrison,” Reyes growls. “It’s been five fucking weeks and you still can’t fucking listen to me even after I said it a hundred times, you need to use your—“

“Use your head, I fucking _know!_ I heard you the first fucking time!” Jack is shouting, the words billowing uncontrolled out of some red-hot spot inside his chest like an ember blown to life. “But has it ever fucking occurred to you that _not everyone is like you?!_ Of course I get angry! Of course I fight! I’ve had to fight for _every single fucking inch_ it took for me to get here! You think any of those guys see the word _‘transgender’_ and think, ‘wow, that sounds really cool!’ _Do you think that?!”_ He gulps down air, already short of breath. But he needs to say this out loud. Needs to shout it. “I had to fight for myself because _no one else_ was gonna fucking do it for me! So no, I can’t be like you and stay cool and _use my goddamn head_ all the time because if I’m not fighting I get thrown out with the fucking trash! I had to get top ten in _everything_ and they barely let me in the program!” He flings out a hand. “And you, you just—straight up _threw_ one of the evals because you couldn’t get off your fucking high horse long enough to follow a simple goddamn order, and _they_ _gave you a fucking command position!_ Would you get your fucking head out of your ass and try seeing from someone else’s point of view for once. Jesus.”

He’s breathing hard. Reyes is staring at him, taken completely by surprise, his lips parted slightly. Everything is quiet for a few seconds except for the sound of wheels rolling by, the distant, alarmed beeping of a disturbed cardiac monitor. Then there’s a timid knock on the doorjamb. “Uh…can I come in?”

Gina. Jack takes in a long breath and lets it out. “Yeah, sure.”

She enters bearing a tray stacked with pudding, crackers, and peanut butter packets. There’s a tall cup of water to one side with a straw sticking out. “Here you go. Sorry to interrupt.”

“No, I’m sorry.” He rubs his eyes. “Other people are probably trying to sleep.”

“The sound insulation here is actually pretty good. We get lots of old demented people in this unit, and they can be, uh…disruptive.” She sets the tray down. “Is there anything else you two need?”

“No, thanks,” Jack says, and Reyes shakes his head.

She leaves them alone.

More silence. A burst of laughing from the nurses’ station outside. Jack realizes he’s fucked up extremely badly and just handed Reyes a great justification to kick him out of the program, and he presses a hand to his mouth. “I’m—I’m sorry, sir. I shouldn’t have yelled at—“

“No, it’s fine,” Reyes replies, thoughtful. “Don’t worry about it. Here.”

He pushes his chair back and guides the low table so it sticks out over the bed and Jack can get at the food. But Jack is still watching him, hesitant; then, because he’s an idiot but he has to make sure, he opens his mouth and asks tentatively, “So…you’re not kicking me out of the program?”

Reyes tips his head back and laughs. “No, you’re staying. Come on, you should drink something.”

Jack sucks down almost the whole cup of water and starts picking at the pudding. Not much of an appetite, after he just fucked things up with that little outburst. Might still be in the SEP but now Reyes is going to think he’s a self-absorbed prick.

“I understand.”

Jack looks up from his pudding.

Reyes is tapping his chin pensively. “You’re right. It never really crossed my mind. But I understand. I’ll get off your ass.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jack mumbles.

Reyes lets out a long sigh. “So what do you want to do about this?”

The pudding kind of sucks, but it’s better than nothing. “About what?”

“King.” Reyes grimaces. “I heard the two of you got into it.”

“He fuckin’ started it.”

“Okay, but what do you want to do about it?”

Jack shrugs. “You’re the commanding officer, don’t you get to choose?”

Reyes leans forward. “The two of you can’t work together. That much is clear. But there’s more than one way to deal with this. I want to know your preference.”

Jack stirs his pudding absently, thinking. “I want to beat him.”

“You want to beat him.”

“Yeah. I mean, you should keep whichever of us is the better soldier. Because we’re supposed to save the world, right? So even if he is a dick, if he can save more lives, then I should be the one transferred out,” Jack says. “But I want to prove that _I’m_ the better soldier. Because I know I am. Or I can be. Despite what he thinks.”

Reyes leans back, gazing at the ceiling, considering. “All right. I’ll put together a sim. The two of you will run it one after the other. If one of you wins, the winner gets to stay. If you both win or both lose, you both get transferred out.”

That sounds…simple enough. “Uh—okay.”

Reyes watches him. “It’s not gonna be easy.”

Jack snorts. “Yeah, I guessed that.”

Reyes smiles and looks down at his knees. “Hey, Morrison.”

“Hm?”

“I know you said no one else was going to fight for you. But I’ll do it as far as I can. Okay? You deserve a real shot.”

Jack sets his pudding aside. “Thought you’re not supposed to play favorites.”

“Come on, King’s a fucking asshole. And he’s almost definitely a worse kisser, I can tell just by looking at him.”

Jack feels the red flush in his cheeks, and he covers his face. Reyes is laughing again.

——

He leaves the hospital the next afternoon, riding with Reyes in the back of a van to the base. Lewis and Liao are there to greet him, and when Lewis puts him in a bear hug and tries to lift him off the ground Reyes intervenes immediately (“Jesus fucking Christ, he just had surgery two days ago”). Still off strenuous activities per the doctor’s orders—he’s got a list, and Reyes gives him an _“if I catch you so much as jogging to the fucking mess hall, there’s gonna be consequences,”_ so he attends lectures and watches livestreams of the sims and rests. Something good _did_ come of this whole incident—the women were supposed to be getting this same round of shots next week, but most of them have uteruses so he just saved the medical staff a _whole_ lot of trouble.

King barely looks at him. The rest of King’s crew comes up and says hello and they’re glad he’s feeling better. Jack had half-expected a rift, but Lewis must have done well in Reyes’s absence; the squad gets along as well as ever.

A week later he feels back to normal, and his running times have suffered slightly but beyond that he falls into the regular routine. And two days after that Reyes tells everyone that Jack and King will be running a sim tomorrow and that the loser will be leaving for another squad.

That provokes some murmurs, not to mention a pair of looks from Lewis and Liao, aimed directly at Jack. Because he didn’t tell them about it, not the specifics, anyway. Just bullshitted something about…conflict resolution, something along those lines.

They corner him at lunch, Lewis sitting down across from him and Liao sliding in beside. Jack pauses with a forkful of egg hovering halfway to his mouth.

“So, you’re running a sim,” Lewis begins.

“Uh-huh,” Jack replies.

“And if you lose you’re out of the squad.”

“Actually, if I win I might still be out of the squad. If King wins too.”

“Jesus, man.” Lewis rubs his forehead. “You knew about this?”

Jack shoves the eggs in his mouth. “Mm-hmm.”

“And you didn’t feel like telling us.”

He swallows. “What would be the point? You guys would’ve just worried for no reason.”

 _“No reason?_ You could get kicked out of the damn squad!”

“Yeah, and there’s nothing either of you could do about it. So why tell you?”

Liao groans. “Can’t you even let your friends worry about you? Christ.”

Lewis shakes his head. “Reyes is a sly motherfucker, man. You gotta be careful.”

Jack waves his fork. “I know, I know.”

They’re both glaring at him. He winces. Caution is…not his strong suit. “I’ll be careful. Promise.”

It’s hard to sleep that night. Not from the pain—the post-surgical ache is completely gone. It’s the nervousness. What if he loses? Or, even if he wins, what if King does as well? He’ll be booted from the squad. Have to come out to a whole new group of people. Won’t see Lewis or Liao again.

Won’t see Reyes.

Jack flips over onto his stomach. That shouldn’t be such a big deal. He’s a commanding officer, and Jack enjoys working under him, yeah, admires his tactics in the field, empathizes with his tendency towards insubordination. And that’s _it._ The looks he sneaks in the showers are purely recreational.

But Jack doesn’t want to leave. Doesn’t want to lose Lewis and Liao either, because he was all set to come here and find no one who would want to associate with him, let alone volunteer (frequently) to defend him.

But he doesn’t want to leave Reyes.

He pulls the pillow under his head and lets out a sigh, his chest deflating. Fucking Reyes. The man’s magnetic.

So he has to win. That’s all he can do. Reyes will make it a fair competition, because that’s what Jack asked for—stupid fucking decision, must have been the pain meds. So he’s got to be a good soldier.

_I love this country, Morrison._

That’s what Reyes cares about. Not which one of them’s the nicer guy. Not which one of them makes his life easier. He cares about which one is gonna save the world from the fucking machines.

Jack shuts his eyes. Gonna need his rest tonight.

——

He’s going second.

Reyes pulls King out in the morning and leaves Lewis in charge again. Jack goes through the daily routine but doesn’t push himself, and Lewis doesn’t get on his ass about it. He’s back to normal now, his strength returned, his times as good as they ever were.

After lunch Reyes shows up again in the van and tells Jack to get in.

Jack rides in the passenger seat. They turn right out of the gate. A couple of different sim sites this way—not the bombed-out city, which is a shame, since that’s Jack’s favorite.

He doesn’t ask where they’re going. If Reyes wants to tell him anything, he’ll say it. But the drive is silent.

Jack gazes at the trees rushing past, the wind warm on his face. It’s not terribly hot today—low eighties, he thinks, which is a fucking miracle. If the site’s outdoors this will suck way less. “Captain Reyes.”

“Hm?”

“Thanks. For treating me fairly while I was here.”

“Don’t need to thank me, Morrison, that’s basic fucking decency.”

“And for coming with me to the hospital.” Jack smiles faintly at the vivid, summer-green trees. “It would have sucked to wake up alone.”

“You did wake up alone. I was trying to get some fucking sleep..”

Jack chuckles. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah.” Reyes taps the steering wheel. “You’re a good soldier, Morrison. Least you deserve is someone to be there after you get one of your organs removed without anyone asking first.”

“There’s not a lot of COs who would do that.” He shrugs.

“I got chewed out for it, you know,” Reyes says pointedly.

Jack glances over. “That’s what I mean. You had to know they were gonna come after you for it but you did it anyway.”

Reyes lets out a sigh. “Not the best quality in an officer.”

“You kidding?” Jack rests his chin on his hand and gazes out the open window again. “That’s a great quality. Anyone with half a brain would promote you.”

“Well. Thanks for the vote of confidence. Most people just think I’m an asshole.”

“No reason you can’t be both,” Jack offers.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re a smarmy little shit, Morrison?”

“Probably, yeah.”

Reyes palms the wheel, pulling them south. The military complex, then. Jack can see it from here, the high walls in crystalcrete topped by barbed wire. “Hey. Try not to fuck it up,” Reyes says.

Jack looks up.

“You _can_ beat the sim. So try not to fuck it up.” His good humor is diminished. “I’d rather not have to transfer you.”

“Does that mean King lost?” Jack blurts out. Because if he’d _won,_ then it wouldn’t matter, Jack would be gone either way—

Reyes glances over, startled. Caught off-guard. Jack’s never seen him caught off-guard. “I can’t tell you that,” he growls, his eyes on the road again.

King lost. Jack’s heart pounds, his head going light. It’s all up to him. He can stay, he can make that happen with his own two hands. All he has to do is not fuck it up.

The gate rises, the guard waving them through. As the van trundles inside Jack takes in as much as he can. Fully fucking staffed, that’s for sure. As Jack watches, four soldiers trickle out of the main entrance, and the last one holds the door as six more stream out past her. The walls and watchtowers are dotted with more guards. Reyes pulls around the side of the complex to what looks like a freight bay and puts the van in park. “Okay.” He twists around, wincing briefly and holding his ribs, then fishes something out of a bag in the back. He comes back with a plastic combat knife and a black box. “These are for you.”

Jack takes the items and stows them.

“That black box is locked with retinal scan and code. It’s two three seven one.”

“Got it.” He repeats it to himself. _Two three seven one, two three seven one._ Gonna feel like a jackass if he gets all the way to the end only to forget the damn code.

“Your mission is to get the commander’s office and plug that into the computer there.” Reyes turns to him. “Is that understood?”

Jack nods resolutely. “Yes, sir.”

“Okay, good. No real time limit, but try not to keep me in suspense, okay?”

“I’ll do my best, sir.” Jack opens up the door—

“And Morrison—“

He pauses and turns.

Reyes is watching him, dark eyes narrowed as if in thought; but then he smiles and waves a hand. “Ah, never mind. You know what I’m gonna say.”

Jack grins back. “Understood, sir.”

He hops out of the van and darts behind the nearest freight container. Reyes is already driving off.

Jack takes a second to breathe and plan. He came here with nothing—no weapons, no body armor, no tac visor. Just his own two hands and a uniform in deep blue—a definite mismatch from the dark green the soldiers here are sporting.

Guns blazing is a bad idea. Way, way too many people here. So he'll go the stealth route. A large base means a lot of armed soldiers between him and the objective, but it also means that an unfamiliar face won't be particularly remarkable. With care he peers around the edge of the metal container. No soldiers here, just a bunch of laborers who are wearing their own style of uniform, in lighter green.

Better than the blues he's wearing. Jack creeps down the length of the container and settles against the back of it so he can get a good look at how the bay works. Lewis's worse of wisdom return to him. _Reyes is a sly motherfucker. You gotta be careful._

Right. The best thing he's got going for him right now is that no one knows he's here—well, they might know he's here, but they don't know he's here. So he needs to keep it that way. Needs to be invisible. Like Reyes on the sim vids. A battlefield ghost.

He pulls his knees into his chest, pressing against the cool metal of the shaded freight container. A shadow, that's all. With plenty of time.

He's well-hidden here, surrounded by other containers. He watches the routines—who chooses which duties, which routes the forklift driver likes. After a little while he starts to make guesses—where this worker will go, where the forklift will turn next. He gets it right, again—again and again. Has the feel for it now.

He edges behind the next container, gets in position. Waits for one of them to get close—but the bay is too quiet, so he lets her leave, tablet in hand. Then the forklift returns, the low, throbbing thrum bouncing off the metal containers. Jack holds his breath, hoping—and there she comes again, poking at her tablet.

Jack slips around the container, wraps an arm around her neck, and drags her back out of sight.

He's got good pressure on her windpipe but covers her mouth anyway, and the scream is barely audible to him, let alone anyone nearer to the forklift. He squeezes down on the sides of her neck and waits—three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, and she goes limp. Jack releases her and lays her down gently.

When she comes to a few seconds later the plastic combat knife is pressed to her ribs. She shakes her head with a smile. Out of the sim.

She doesn’t help him get the uniform off because he wouldn’t have help if this were a real mission. So he has to do it himself while she lies there like a dead fish, grinning at him the whole time. The suit fits him quite well—not too tight around his ass, like most men's uniforms. He jams the cap down on his head and slides the knife and black box into the tablet pouch at his belt.

They will recognize that he's not one of them. Less than a dozen laborers here, and with the woman's absence it's too risky to be seen. So he waits for an opening. It takes a few more long minutes. Jack finds himself getting antsy. They could notice she's gone any moment, and then they might start looking around over here. He takes a deep, slow breath. Did Reyes ever get nervous while he lurked the hostile battlefield, waiting for his target to stray just a little bit closer? No, of course not. So Jack waits. If something happens, well, he'll adapt.

At last his path clears—but it won't stay that way so he darts out of hiding, moving on tiptoes to minimize noise, makes the door and slips inside.

Not the base, not quite. It's a hangar. Three fighters line the near wall, with a line of trucks up the middle.

This uniform won't get him far enough. That's the main problem. A laborer—a civilian—will be out of place inside the base, especially further in, closer to the important stuff. Like the commander's office. But there's a cargo plane backing in at the other side of the hangar right now. Jack heads toward it, poking at the tablet. Might be...he pulls up a map of the base with a floor plan. Four floors, and he flips to the top one, scanning. Smaller rooms, probably offices, with names printed inside...

 _CDR. WILLIAMS._ Bingo.

Jack keeps his head bowed, using the brim of the cap to hide his face from the freight workers. The protocol here should be similar to what he's familiar with—one pilot inventories the cargo with the ground crew, the other delivers the report to the supply officer. One of the pilots has already climbed down the ladder from the cabin and comes around to the rear of the plane.

Jack heads for the cabin. This will require some timing. The huge, powerful engines hanging from the wings should conceal him—he glances back as he climbs the ladder and waits just below the open door.

The whirr of the cargo bay opening. Jack heaves himself up into the back of the cockpit. The remaining pilot takes off his headset and lays it on the control panel.

When he turns around Jack stabs him in the chest.

The plastic blade retracts into the handle. The pilot lets out a sigh and then collapses, doing his best corpse impression. Getting the flight suit off is a little harder here since the guy is probably close to two fifty. This one won’t fit as well—the pilot’s also six inches taller than he is—but if he rolls up the sleeves and bunches the pant legs it shouldn’t look too bad. When he’s dressed, knife and black box safely stowed in his pocket, he climbs down the ladder.

Time to go.

He heads around the front of the plane so the co-pilot doesn't spot him from the cargo hold. The commander's office is on the top floor, yeah. But the supply officer will be on the ground floor, so Jack needs to be prepared for questions. (Would be nice to get a base uniform, but he'd be hard pressed to find a good hiding spot inside the base for the poor asshole he steals it from.)

Through the metal door and into the base.

A soldier passes by and doesn't spare him a second glance. The expression is part of it, too; for now he chooses one relaxed and thoughtful. Boring. He gazes at passing doors, trying to appear mindless. In truth he's searching for the stairs.

There. Jack shoulders the door open. A different expression now. Intense and resolute.  A man-on-a-mission kind of thing. No skipping steps, much as he'd like to speed things along. _That_  might draw suspicion.   


He gets glances on the stairs. Doesn't return any of them. The quicker he passes out of sight, the less time they'll linger on him. Two flights. Three.

Top floor.

The hallway he steps into is empty, Peering down it, he sees a row of doors and assembles the floor plan in his head. The office he's looking for should be at the end. Okay. He maintains the expression—brow furrowed, mouth pulled down in a tight frown. No mistakes. If he wins, he stays. If not, he'll be pissed at himself, obviously. But also—

Reyes would be disappointed. Not because of the transfer, but disappointed _in him,_  and that would suck more than Jack wants to think about right now. 

Plus he has to beat King. He _has_  to.

Jack strides forward, boots clicking on the metal floor. Almost there. He turns the corner, checks the first door—

As he's reading _CDR. WILLIAMS_ on the nameplate there's the sound of a door opening down the hall. Jack grabs the handle in front of him and twists. Locked. Fuck.

"Can I help you?"

The woman walks up to him, lifting an eyebrow. Jack grimaces. "Need to speak with the commander. There was a...problem with the requisition."

The woman frowns. "The supply officer normally handles these matters."

"I'm aware."

She waits for further clarification. He provides none. Finally she sighs and presses a finger to her ear. "Commander, there's a pilot here to see you."

_Fuck._  She drops her hand. "Wait here. He'll be along soon."

Then she's on her way. The second she turns the corner Jack's pulling out the black box and holding it up to his eye. The blue light scans him up and down and then the smooth surface presents him with a nine-digit keypad.

The code.

The code. Fuck. What was the fucking—no, come on, he _knows_  this. Remembers the van, Reyes wincing as he twisted back to retrieve the black box, telling him _the code is—_

Two three seven one. Jack punches it in. Seams of blue light outline the black cube, and he holds it up to the electronic lock. A faint _click,_  and the door opens gently. Jack slips inside and shuts it behind him. The commander will be on the way, so he's on a timer.

The office is cluttered—half of it taken up by sliding shelves stacked with what look like evidence boxes, a training dummy near the wall. A clothing rack hung with uniforms. And at the back, a desk with an arc screen sitting on top of it. Jack approaches, turning the black box—finds the thin wire and unspools it—

A quiet _click_  behind him. Jack turns to discover the door opening up again. And stepping through it is...Reyes. 

Here to congratulate him on making it? He hadn't even plugged the thing in but supposes he was close enough. He opens his mouth to ask if it's over.

But something's off. Reyes isn't wearing the SEP uniform—he's dressed in the same one the rest of the soldiers at the base are wearing. Jack clocks the name on his tag: WILLIAMS. Like the nameplate on the door.

Reyes nods at him. "Nice black box you got there."

Jack stares, dumbstruck. So he—he has to—

Reyes launches himself across the room. 

Jack drops the black box and draws his knife, but of course he's too fucking slow because Reyes is there already and chops his wrist and the knife flies out of his grip. Manages to get his arms up just in time to knock the next strike past his face. He has to fight Reyes. Of course he does. Has never beaten him on the mats—no one has, not when he's actually trying. Jack backs up around the desk, catches the chair behind him and swings it out—Reyes grabs it and chucks it away, but it gives Jack the chance to get around the other side of the desk, with the high arc screen glowing between them.

No, Jack's never beaten Reyes on the mats. But they're not on the mats. They're in the field, and Jack's score in close-range field combat was the second highest the program's ever seen. 

Reyes was first, of course. But how many points separated them? How many fractions of points? And Jack's been practicing every week, not to mention watching the sim vids. 

Reyes won't go easy on him. The memory of his sweaty skin in the moonlight, his beer-drunk solemnity. " _I love this country, Morrison."_ So Jack's going to use every trick he knows. He has to win. He _has_ to. 

Reyes is coming for him.

Pushing him back right. He knows what's there and reaches for it, finds the cool metal post of the clothing rack and swings himself around it, pulling it across his body. Reyes moves with it nimbly, but Jack slips straight through the uniforms and gets behind him—

He's already turning around. Fuck. Jack kicks the base of the rack, banging it into Reyes's ankle and making him sidestep. Jack strikes out—but Reyes's hand appears out of the uniforms, grabs his flight suit, and yanks. Jack's strike is off-target and lands in Reyes's shoulder, his head bouncing off the metal pole. Reyes yanks again but Jack shoves the pole sideways, jamming it into Reyes's arm. The grip on his suit springs open. He kicks the rack again, getting it between the two of them so he can back up and get some space—

Reyes bursts through the hanging uniforms, wrapping both arms around Jack's middle and tackling him to the ground.

Something (the injections, must be) gives him the presence of mind to get his legs up as his back thumps into the floor, to wrap them around Reyes's broad waist. He goes for Reyes's shoulder, reaching across his body to grab and drag it down—be nice to end this early with an arm lock—but Reyes catches his upper arm and slams it down on the floor beside his head, pins the other one too. 

For a second they stay there staring at each other, Jack still trying to figure out how the fuck he wins this, because he _has_  to win. Then Reyes's face opens up in a fierce grin. "That all you got, Morrison?"

Jack snorts, glad for the easing of tension. "You're breaking character, sir."

"Ah, who gives a shit?"

"You gonna do anything there, sir?" Jack asks. "I know I'm pretty, but just staring at me ain't gonna win you anything."

"Sorry, didn't know you were in a hurry to get your ass kicked." Reyes extends his legs, hiking his hips up into the air. Trying to break the guard, but Jack was expecting that and pushes against Reyes's grip, lengthening his body to keep his ankles locked tight. His crotch is firmly pressed to Reyes's stomach, allowing no room for a knee to sneak in and cut the guard down to half. 

"Huh," Reyes remarks. "You're pretty quick, aren't you?"

"Sorry, sir," Jack tells him. "That wasn't gonna work on me."

Then Reyes grins again. "You sure? 'Cause it looks to me like I got you exactly where I want you."

Jack's breath catches despite himself. Stretched out beneath Reyes, their hips locked together—

When Reyes releases him his body moves reflexively, following the plan he'd chosen already. Good, because his thoughts were certainly elsewhere. Only one arm free but that's all he needs, twisting to wrap his hand around the back of Reyes's neck—but Reyes is _there,_  grabs his wrist and yanks. Jack realizes if he maintains the hold his shoulder will be pulled out of its socket. So he uncrosses his ankles and pulls one knee up, jamming it inside Reyes's elbow. The pin on his other arm breaks. Reyes rocks back and rises—too suddenly, and Jack's other leg slips from its hold. 

Reyes throws him into the shelves.

Jack curls so the metal edges hit his ribs, not his spine. It still hurts. The shelves rattle on their tracks, but none of the boxes fall. Jack starts to rise, finds Reyes coming at him—grabs a cardboard box and swings it. Reyes tries to bat it away but it's heavy and he staggers sideways.

Jack goes in. Can't beat Reyes on the mats, he _knows,_  but maybe he can put in a few hits to give himself an edge.

The first strike is deflected down as Reyes rebalances—thuds into his hip, and Jack gets inside the retaliation, shoves it out and rams an elbow into Reyes's ribs. Reyes snarls in pain and grabs Jack's shirt, pulling; Jack tries to block the knee to his gut but it still knocks the breath out of him. Anticipates the hand wrapping around the back of his head so he turns his shoulder and shoves into Reyes's chest. A stuttered step back, and Jack wraps a foot around Reyes's ankle and tugs. But he doesn't go down. Fuck. Jack gets an arm up and pushes off. Reyes lets him go, and they break apart, facing each other in the small space.

Reyes holds his ribs. "God damnit, Morrison. Same spot where King got me earlier."

"Sorry, sir," Jack replies insincerely. So King got this far too. But Reyes must have beaten him.

"I couldn't take any hits to the face," Reyes says. "Because you would have seen it and that would have ruined the surprise." He chuckles. "Good thing King's really fucking predictable."

"So he _did_ lose," Jack presses, because he hasn't actually heard it out loud yet—

"Yeah," Reyes admits. "King lost. If you win here, you're golden."

Then that's it. It's all up to him now. "Understood, sir."

Reyes comes at him again.

Jack leans away from the first blow, Reyes's knuckles just barely brushing his cheek. Ribs—he blocks with a grunt. His forearms will be black and blue after this. The next hit gets him in the chest but he moves with it, circling back.

Reyes pursues him. Fuck. Can't play defense the whole time—that's no way to win. He jabs but Reyes goes around it, flowing like water through the sluice, just as sure and steady as he adjusts his approach and attacks.

Jack tries to get out of the way but isn't fast enough. Reyes gets him in the teeth. Not quite hard enough to knock anything loose, but blood bursts into his mouth, making him cough. 

The shots wrap his focus and hoist it back up on razor wire. He swivels from the hip, his foot pivoting, and socks Reyes in the cheek.

Reyes laughs as he staggers back. Jack hesitates. After a good hit like that, he'd usually go in and take advantage. But...

"These drugs are really something, huh?" Reyes says.

Jack takes a deep breath in and lets it out, feeling the ache in his ribs.

"Keep you on your feet when you should be on your ass." He rubs a thumb over his cheek. Blood smears there from the split skin. "Keep your head on straight when it should be spinning. You noticed it yet, Morrison?"

Jack nods cautiously. 

"You're not like King. Not as predictable. You improvise a lot and I like that," Reyes continues. "So I guess to take you down, I just need to put in the work."

"That won't be happening, sir," Jack murmurs.

"Then _you_ better put in the work." Reyes's gaze settles on him, dark and cool. "Because I got the same drugs you did."

He charges. 

Jack meets him. He has to win. If the drugs will keep him on his feet, he can be a little more aggressive, take hits in return for dishing them out. Reyes is bigger than him, and a better fighter. But if Jack can surprise him, he might have a shot.

It's gonna hurt, yeah. He already knows that. It doesn't matter if it means he gets to stay.

Jack takes the first hit. Would have been easy to dodge—a blossom of pain in the muscle at his chest—but instead he uses the chance to make a swing at Reyes's face. Reyes can't get out of the way in time and grunts as his head whips to the side. Jack gets a split-second rush of victory before takes a fist to the gut—full-force this time, and bile rises in his throat but the drugs get his legs pumping, and he puts his shoulder into Reyes's middle and lifts him— _lifts_ him, barrels forward and hurls him into the training dummy. 

Reyes's back arches around it, and he hits the ground. Jack follows him—but Reyes surges off the floor (so fucking _fast,_  there's practically no recovery time, gets his arms around Jack's thigh, and throws him down. Jack scrambles, hiking his legs up, but this time only manages a half-guard, one of his thighs locked between both of Reyes's.

He can't stay here—Reyes is just too big, the size disadvantage too far out of his favor on the ground. So Jack moves fast, shoving Reyes's arm down between their bodies, reaching over his shoulder and grabbing his belt. Reyes figures out what's happening and tucks his head even as Jack releases the guard, heaves up with his legs, and flips Reyes over onto his back with a satisfying _thud_. Against another fighter Jack would dive right back in to try for a lock, but not here. Instead he backs off, getting his hands up. 

Then Reyes is on his feet and engaging once more.

A shot to the ribs. Jack takes it and gets Reyes in the nose, a good hit that pops his head back. It's returned in king a split-second later, and Jack feels the splintering pain, the blood gushing from his nostrils. His mind wants to go foggy but the drugs shear away the haze and he stays right there in the fight, diverting another jab past his head. 

The hits pile up. Jack feels them. A throb in his ribs, an ache in his gut. Feels his face tightening with the pain. Still, he notices when Reyes changes up his approach. Fewer hits; when he makes opening he uses them to try and get Jack in a submission or put him on the ground. It almost works more than once. But he fights back against the takedowns with a ferocity he knows he couldn't muster without his remodeled body and mind. Even Reyes seems taken aback, the good-natured challenge on his face replaced with what Jack sees on the sim vids.

Nothing.

Jack flinches as Reyes's boot thuds into his thigh again. Those are starting to add up too. His thighs ache, worse when he's moving around. Reyes looks beat to shit, because Jack _has_  been getting hits in, and they were _good_  hits. 

But not enough. Reyes's eyes are too good, and he's blocked or deflected plenty. And there's no sign of slowing. He's just as steady and strong as he was when they started. A wave that never breaks, implacable, advancing. 

Jack spits blood on the floor and goes back in.

The first strike is chopped down, the second blocked. Jack swivels into the third, gasping as a searing pain shoots through his bruised thigh. That one hits, taking Reyes in the gut. He coughs but doesn't buckle, instead brings up an elbow that splits open Jack's eyebrow. Jack stumbles, dazed. The razor wire wraps around his brain again. 

But the tension is weak, and he blinks, unfocused, shaking his head. There's something in his eye, warm and thick. Blood. 

Reyes is coming.

Jack realizes a split-second before he sees it. No. He has to win. Pulls his legs up as Reyes tackles him—gets both his knees against Reyes's chest this time and shoves with all the strength he has left in him. 

It works. Reyes is thrown back into the wall. Jack scrambles to his feet and goes in the opposite direction, ducking behind the shelves. 

Evidence boxes rise eight feet high above him on either side. He coughs, wiping his face. The drugs didn't work. Not enough. He's hit his limit, or nearly. Can feel it—his body screaming _damage,_  his nose and mouth filled with blood, the iron taste dripping down his throat, legs shaky under him. And Reyes is still standing. 

Movement. The shelf on the far side from where he hides, sliding, leaving only one layer between him and—

Reyes's arm darts between the boxes and seizes Jack's flight suit.

Fuck. Jack puts his shoulder up and ducks his head to blunt the impact of the metal shelf-edge on the side of his skull. Reaching out, he sticks his hand out, searching—head knocking into one of the solid boxes this time—finds the post, grabs it and heaves. Immediately Reyes releases him and struggles to withdraw—just barely gets his arm back before the shelf slides past it. 

Jack steps back, his stomach flipping. If Reyes didn't get out in time—those shelves are heavy. Jack could have crushed his arm.  More movement, obscured by the double layer of boxes. He scans left—not there, must be the other side—

A shadow. Reyes descends from above. 

_Trapped._  Jack discards the though. He has to win. He _has_  to. Turns to run up the aisle—there's a _thud_  behind him, and he grabs the end of the shelf, pulls himself around it—

A tug on the back of the flight suit. Jack tries to rebalance but his bruised legs won't cooperate, and he staggers instead.

Reyes's arm wraps around his neck. 

Jack grabs at it, knows it's useless. He gasps, the blood pounding in his head. No. He has to win. Reflexively he counts the seconds, knows there's not many until unconsciousness. _One, two, three, four._

"Just relax, Morrison," Reyes murmurs in his ear. "It's over."

It can't be over. He has to win. Desperately he raises an elbow and jams it into Reyes's ribs. 

A grunt, but the hold stays tight as ever. "Hit me all you want, it's still over."

_Eight, nine, ten._ Jack does it again and again, even as Reyes arches away. It's all he can do. He can't lose. Not now. Has to try.

"Don't fight it," Reyes says, his voice soothing. "Just let go."

Jack gropes wildly at Reyes's belt, searching for weapons even though he knows there are none. His vision narrows down. _Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen._  His heart pounds, head throbbing. This can't be the end. He stomps down on Reyes's boot—another grunt but the hold stays firm around his neck. _Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen._  He struggles for nineteen but can't quite reach it.

When he opens his eyes again Reyes is gazing down at him, dark and cool, pulling his fist back. Jack blinks blearily and watches it come down. That'll put him out. He should block it.

A burst of pain in his jaw.

He wakes up.

Things are sideways. He appears to be on the floor. A few feet in front of him Reyes, back turned, is rising from a crouch, cursing and holding his ribs. He taps his ear, waits a second, and starts talking in Spanish.

Jack's Spanish is crap so he can't tell what Reyes is saying. Calling for reinforcements? Or is the sim over? The way Reyes was brought to his knees over his bruises just now—Jack can't have been out for more than a few seconds. A few seconds after a hit like that? Must be the drugs. 

His head is foggy but starts to clear. Reyes holds the metal post of the clothing rack, leaning his forehead against it. His head is still turned. Jack licks the blood from his lips. If he's fast enough—he has the element of surprise, if he can bring Reyes down _now,_ then maybe he can still do this, because he has to win, he—

_“And Morrison—“_

He _has_  to— 

_Reyes is watching him, dark eyes narrowed as if in thought; but then he smiles and waves a hand. “Ah, never mind. You know what I’m gonna say.”_

_Jack grins back. “Understood, sir.”_

Jack's eyes slide down across the floor.

_Use your head, Morrison._

The black box is sitting right where he dropped it. Carefully, silently, he reaches out and picks it up. The thin wire still dangles off, plug hanging.

Then he takes a deep breath, clambers to his feet, heaves himself over the desk, and plugs it in beneath the arc screen.

"Bang."

Jack looks up.

Reyes has a handgun leveled at him—where'd he get a gun? Must have been while Jack was out. "You're dead, Morrison," he says.

The glowing 'DEVICE CONNECTED' notification appears above the arc screen. "Yes, sir," Jack replies.

Reyes lowers the gun. "Congratulations." He comes over and tosses it on the desk. "Looks like you're staying." 


	4. Chapter 4

Jack, still draped over the desk, puts his head down on his arm.

"Morrison? Morrison!" Reyes cups his face and raises it—

"No, it's okay, Captain." Jack pats his hand. "I'm fine, sorry. Just tired."

"You're not fine. I thought I was gonna kill you. You just wouldn't go down." Reyes helps him off the desk with care, sitting him on the floor. "Medics are on the way, just hold tight."

Jack makes a guttural noise of pain as his aching thigh bends, his stomach and ribs compress. He's really starting to feel it now, with the adrenaline fading. "If you'll pardon—the bluntness, sir. You don't—look so good yourself."

It's true. Reyes's mouth is bruised and swollen, his cheeks split, his eyes blackening. "Yeah, but at least I was defending myself," he says. "You weren't." 

Jack blinks slowly, staring at his hands. Both broken, he's sure, with all the punches he was throwing. He coughs, blood spraying from his mouth. "So... _that_ was the point. Completing the objective."

"Yeah." Reyes glances up at the arc screen. "I had the setup. Knew the drugs don't let us stay unconscious for more than a few seconds. So I gave you and King a choice." He smiles, blood oozing from a crack in his lip. "King came at me after I punched him out so I shot him. Rubber bullet." A half-shrug. "Shows me he didn't learn from that sim where you and Liao pulled one over on him."

"And—" Jack coughs. There's blood dripping down the back of his throat from his crunched nose. "And me?"

Reyes grins, resting a hand on Jack's shoulder. "Shows you can control that temper when it really matters."

Jack lists, sagging into Reyes's chest. Christ, he's in a lot of pain. "What if—we beat you instead? Before you could put us down?"

Reyes snorts at that. "Hell, if you could beat me hand-to-hand, you deserved to win."

The door bursts open and a pair of medics appear, wheeled stretcher in tow. Jack groans. "You are _not_ carrying me on that thing."

"Yes they are." Reyes rises. "I know what I did to you."

"Uh-uh. I'm walking." Jack grips the desk and pulls himself up—

HIs bruised leg buckles and give, and Reyes catches him, laughing. "You're going on the stretcher."

"How come you're fine?" Jack mutters, clutching the back of Reyes's shirt. He allows himself to be lifted and lain down by the medics. 

"I'm not," Reyes replied. "You just weren't going for my legs. Plus I got fifty pounds on you, Morrison, I hit harder. Plain and simple." He follows the stretcher, holding his ribs. "Nice trick with the shelf, by the way."

Jack stares up at him. "The one where I almost crushed your arm?"

"Yeah. That was some good shit. Hey, can one of you call ahead to the infirmary? He's gonna need a shot of factor. We both will."

"No," Jack moans. Factor shots are great for fixing brain injuries, but they have to go in the spine. It's not particularly fun. 

"You need to take care of yourself, Morrison," Reyes tells him. "That's an order."

——

The factor shots hurt like a son of a gun. He and Reyes grunt and growl through them together, bare backs hunched under the bright overhead lights. Then there's more shots, the tech scanning Jack first, injecting Osseform to help his broken ribs and hands. The painkillers have kicked in by then, at least, but it still burns. Jack hisses, toes curling. Reyes is sitting beside him and squeezes his shoulder. "Almost done." 

It's a nice gesture, but Jack still takes them up on a second dose of painkillers. That one definitely gets him a little high. 

Reyes is up next. He lies on his side, wincing and swearing when the Osseform goes in under the probe. The tech is unmoved; she offers a flat "I'm sorry" and moves on to the next rib. Reyes's hand balls in the white sheet.

On impulse Jack reaches out and takes it. 

Reyes immediately starts to relax, and he smiles a little. Still winces when the medicine goes in, a wheal forming under the needle. But the tension is gone from his face.

"Command gets lonely sometimes," he says, unprompted. 

Jack blinks, sort of spacey from the drugs. "Hm?"

"It's fun, I like it," Reyes continues. "I like the responsibility. But it gets lonely."

Jack shifts and smiles. "Need someone to treat you like just another asshole, huh?"

_"Fuck."_ Reyes sucks in air through his teeth as another shot goes in. "Yeah, something like that." He quirks an amused eyebrow. "Nice to get the shit beaten out of me now and then, too. Keeps my head from getting too big."

"Think we're a little too late for that, sir," Jack replies. "But I'm glad I could provide a service."

Reyes chuckles. "It's a good thing you ended up in my unit, Morrison. Because another CO would have slapped those words right out of your mouth."

Jack shrinks back in his chair. Reyes is right, he should be more careful. "I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean to overstep—"

"No, Morrison, it's fine. I like it when you give me shit." He grins. "Long as you keep following my orders in the field, anyway."

Yeah. He did get lucky. "Understood, Captain."

The tech puts the last shot in the spine and Reyes lets out a vigorous string of curses, crushing Jack's hand in his own. 

The doctor tells Jack he has to stay the night for a Myodine infusion to start repairing his bruised muscles, and Jack groans and tries to refuse but Reyes says he he has to so that's the end of that. Then the doctor tells Reyes _he_ has to stay for a couple of hours too, which makes Jack feel better. 

So they lie in their beds, a long white curtain hung between them. Someone slaps an egg salad sandwich down in front of Jack, so he pokes at it for a bit, but the painkillers have turned his stomach and the mayonnaise globs and mushed-up yolk aren't doing anything for it. 

Then the curtain at the end of his bed flies open and Lewis appears, tray in hand. "Morrison! Damn, you look like shit."

Jack laughs weakly. His whole face still hurts. "Yeah, blame the captain for that."

Lewis's face goes serious. "Say what now?"

"No, no, it's fine, it was part of the sim." Jack waves a hand. "Anyway, I gave as good as I got."

Lewis grunts and comes in, setting the tray down. Liao appears behind him, carrying two more. "So? You staying?"

"Yeah, I'm staying."

They pull up some chairs. The dinner from the mess hall is way better than the dense mass of egg matter he was offered earlier. They talk for a while and it kind of hurts to laugh but Jack finds himself doing it anyway. The relief is just starting to hit him, the magnitude of what was at stake and what it means to have won. He knows well enough that you don't find people like Lewis or Liao everywhere you go.

Or Reyes.

There's no sound from the other side of the curtain. Jack doesn't mention Reyes's presence there; he figures if Reyes wanted to say something, he would. But he doesn't, doesn't make even the smallest sound. It's already late so the nurse comes to kick everyone out before long and Jack waves them goodbye, feeling nice and relaxed. That might be the drugs, but he's like to think it's because of his friends too. 

He lies there, listening to the quiet whirr of the air conditioning. There's a TV set up in the corner but hes not all that interested in watching anything right now. He stares at the white ceiling with the IV dripping sedately beside him, bored but restless. There's _something_ he wants to do, something that would scratch the itch. But it's not TV, and it's not sleep, and it's not more food or idly scrolling his tablet either. 

Metallic rattling as the dividing curtain is whisked open. Reyes stands there in the white-blue hospital gown, holding the IV pole in one hand. "Hey."

Jack looks up. "Hm?"

"I'm bored out of my mind. Talk to me."

Jack heaves a sigh. "Is that an order, sir?"

Reyes guffaws and claps a hand to his chest. "Jesus, Morrison, I don't want to _burden_ you—"

"No, I'm kidding." He sits up, careful of the IV. "So what do you want to talk about?"

Reyes leans against the IV pole. "Tell me about the first girl you ever kissed."

Jack cocks an eyebrow at him. "'What makes you think I ever kissed a girl?"

"You're from the Midwest." Reyes ticks off one finger. "I know from your file you didn't start treatment 'til you were seventeen. So you spent your teenage years trying to prove your masculinity." 

Yep. Jack confesses. "Yeah, I kissed a girl. I was sixteen. We didn't get very far, though. Turns out I'm gay." He shrugs. "But that's not very masculine."

"You saying something about me, Morrison?"

"No! No, sir."

"Hm. Anyway, it might not be in Indiana." Reyes fixes him with a wicked grin. "You should come to LA sometime. I could show you some good clubs."

Jack shakes his head. "In my experience, no matter where you go, gay guys are always gonna prefer dick over...what I got."

"Christ, I didn't say you had to fuck anyone, Morrison." But Reyes gazes at him thoughtfully. "Fine. I get it. I won't take you clubbing."

Jack glances up with a half-smile. "Then where will you take me?"

Reyes doesn't respond right away, for a moment struck dumb; then he cocks his head, sitting slowly on the edge of the bed. "I could show you the boardwalk. Spent a ton of time there when I was a kid. My friend would steal a few beers from his uncle and we'd all head down for the evening..."

They settle into a rhythm, trading stories about when they were young—Reyes's are far more interesting but he still listens attentively to Jack, asks questions and laughs at all the right moments. 

"How about you?" Jack asks at one point. "You ever kissed a girl?"

Reyes snorts. "No. I was pretty fucking sure who I was into early on."

"How was..." Jack hesitates, but he figures there's no harm in asking. Reyes can always refuse to answer. "How was your family? When you told them?"

"Ah, my dad pitched a fit for a little while. My mom didn't really give a shit," he says. "Until she found the condoms in my room, _then_ she was pissed. I was, uh. Fourteen."

Jack cackles. "God. _Fourteen?"_

"Come on, it's not that weird."

"Uh-huh." Jack decides not to mention that he didn't lose his virginity until he was twenty. 

"How about you?" Reyes asks. "How were your parents when you told them?"

Jack sighs, rubbing his neck. "They didn't believe me. I had to keep telling them for years. And even then it didn't do anything until..." He trails off. Hasn't talked about this out loud very much.

"Sorry," Reyes murmurs. "You don't have to answer that."

"No, it's fine. I told them I wasn't gonna make it another year doing the same thing. I guess I was telling the truth. I don't really remember." He shrugs. "They got me a doctor's appointment."

"Hm." Reyes leans back on one arm, holding the other in his lap to preserve the IV. "You know, you're really something. Anyone ever tell you that?"

Jack stares. "What?"

"Come on. You joined the military as a trans man. You had to know that wasn't gonna go easy for you."

"Well—yeah, I guess." Jack rests his head in his hand. "But you could see it happening, even then. With the Omnics. I had to do something." 

"You didn't have to," Reyes says. "But you did."

Jack shrugs and wraps his arms around his stomach, not really knowing what to say. It never seemed that remarkable to him. He meets Reyes's eyes, dark and cool even under the pale lights, and tries to think of a reply. 

Reyes's IV pump beeps. Jack jumps half out of his skin, muttering, "Jesus." 

Reyes glances over at it, smiling faintly. "Guess this is where I leave you."

"Captain Reyes." The nurse comes through the door, pulling his gloves on. "Looks like the infusion's done. How do you feel?"

Jack lies back, watching them take the line out. Now he gets to spend the night here alone with a needle stuck in his arm and even more drugs being pumped into him. Great.

"Hey, Morrison." 

Reyes drags the hospital gown off and lays it on the bed. Not as bad as the showers—at least he's got the briefs on—but the muscled pectorals, the thick, dark nipples, the powerful thighs, the hair that covers his stomach and chest...Jack rubs his eyes. He should probably break the staring habit before it gets him in trouble. 

"Between you and me." Reyes shakes out the clean uniform on the side table. "I'm glad you beat the sim."

Jack snorts. "You coulda helped me out a little."

Reyes pauses, the shirt halfway up one arm; then he starts pulling it on again. "I had to do that. I'm a CO, I have...a lot of responsibility."

"I'm kidding. I wouldn't have wanted you to go easy on me." He hesitates. "Captain?"

Reyes steps into his pants. "Yeah?"

"I'm proud to serve under you," Jack says.

Reyes shakes his head, grinning. "One day you're gonna eat those words."

"Respectfully, sir, I don't think I will." 

Reyes looks up, his face opening in surprise. Then he bends down again, pulling his pants up and buttoning them. "Well. I'll try not to let you down."

Then he leaves with a murmured, "Good night," and Jack is alone.

He stares at the ceiling, mind racing. The nurse comes back to hang another bag of Myodine and says something about aches and pains in the morning. Jack isn't listening. All he can think about is professional boundaries and how little Reyes seems to care about them, and where the onus lies. If there is one in the first place.

Jack presses a hand to his forehead. There _is_ , of course, but Reyes prides himself on responsibility and all that crap. So maybe...

He can practically see Lewis and Liao sitting across from him in the mess hall, wearing a pair of pointed glares. Jack groans and flops over. Fucking hell.

He decides to sleep on it and hope things are clearer in the morning.

——

They're not. Jack resolves to simply not think about it anymore and go to breakfast instead. But as he's swinging his legs off the bed Lewis and Liao show up with two full trays of food. 

"King's gone." Lewis shoves a strip of bacon into his mouth and chews. "Left during the night sometime."

"His crew is kinda riled up," Liao adds. "No one knows what happened. Reyes just told us King was out and left."

Jack bites off half a sausage. "So what you're saying is, when I leave here there's a chance I might get beat up behind the equipment shed for getting King transferred."

"He got his own self transferred," Lewis points out. "Not your fault he lost the sim."

Jack folds the rest of the sausage into his mouth. _There's something going on between me and the captain,_ he wants to say. But the words never make it out.

Even with the muscle aches from the Myodine he feels better—less damaged. Not that anyone could tell by looking at him. In the mirror he still looks like shit: two black eyes, a split on the bridge of his nose, cuts on his swollen lips and bruises on his cheeks and jaw. 

He skips the morning routine because the doctor makes him, but after lunch he goes to the tactics lecture. Reyes sits next to him in the conference room, tapping his fingers on the table. But he's not as aggressively bored as he usually is. Jack keeps on looking up at him—his gaze drawn there—and most of the time finds Reyes looking back. The lecture goes in one ear and out the other. That's not supposed to happen. Tactics was his lowest score, he should be paying attention.

The fatigue hits him hard after that so he takes a nap, which isn't as restful as he was hoping. Because he keeps thinking of Reyes's arm folded around his muscular chest as he leaned against the IV pole in that ridiculous hospital gown. His wicked grin under the single overhead light.

_Then where will you take me?_

_I could show you the boardwalk._

Jack rolls on his back with an annoyed sigh. He needs sleep. Not...this.

Liao wakes him up for an evening meeting.

Jack follows him to the main building. His legs are stiff. So are his stomach and back. Probably should have been stretching, but that infusion knocked his feet out from under him. They meet in the conference room again, and the rift Lewis managed to avert after Jack's first hospitalization is certainly there now. King's crew is lined up sitting on one side of the table, and their narrowed eyes are hard to miss when Jack walks in. 

"Okay." Reyes is at the front of the room. He's still sporting a black eye and a busted lip and some bruises of his own. "I heard some of you were skeptical of yesterday's events. Which is frankly borderline fucking insubordinate but hey, I'm in a good mood so I'll fucking indulge you. I pulled the vids from King's and Morrison's runs of the sim yesterday. They both made it to the final encounter, so we'll take a look at those."

He flips the screen on. 

On the vid Reyes walks into the office. King drops the black box and they engage. Just like it is on the mats. Jack spots most of the moves King makes before he makes them. Reyes strings him along for a little bit and then catches him through the clothes rack, putting him down with a good knockout. Then he kicks the black box over so it's within arm's reach and plucks a pistol from the desk drawer. 

When King wakes up he waits four or five seconds and then charges. Reyes whips around and shoots him in the stomach with a rubber bullet. 

The video switches over. Jack cringes at his dopey, wide-eyed expression when Reyes first appears. Feels a little better about the fight afterward. He really was doing everything he could, especially in the face of that size disadvantage.

It's pretty brutal. He never realized just how badly his face was mauled. Liao watches through his fingers. There's a small collection of gasps when Jack heaves the shelves over and nearly breaks Reyes's arm. Reyes is grinning. 

The knockout is painful all over again. On the screen Reyes hesitates just a hitch before delivering the blow to Jack's bloodied face. He's down for longer than King was. Fifteen seconds pass. Twenty. Reyes is holding the phone, waiting with his back turned. He crouches, holding his ribs. Can't turn his head, of course, or the whole thing might fall apart.

Finally Jack sees his eyes flutter open. He lies there for a good twenty seconds before grabbing the black box and plugging it in. 

Reyes turns the screen off. "So that's why King's gone. Because if Morrison could complete the mission after getting his brain bounced around like that, then King sure fucking should have been able to." He scans the room. "Any more questions?" 

Nothing. The guys across the table look subdued. Good. Reyes jerks his head. "Go get some dinner. Morrison, stay here a minute."

Lewis's big hand lands on his back, squeezing his shoulder briefly. The room empties out, until it's just Jack swiveling slowly in the chair with Reyes standing, arms folded, next to him. "How do you feel?" he asks.

Jack shrugs. "Wiped out. Stiff all over." He rises, stretching out, his limbs shivering. "Think I'll be okay, though. How about you?"

"I'm fine," Reyes says tersely. Then he shrugs. "Nothing a little taking it easy won't fix." He jerks his head at the door. "Think this helped, but if anyone starts making waves over how this all turned out, you let me know."

"Yes, sir," Jack replies.

"And I _know_ you're not going to, so I'll say it again." Reyes levels a look at him. "I want you to tell me. Got it?"

Jack winces and runs a hand through his hair. "Yes, sir."

"That's what I like to hear." Reyes opens his mouth like he's about to say something else, but he hesitates, gaze locked on Jack. Jack returns it, waiting, distracted a little by the heavy set of his jaw, the blunt cheekbones, how his eyes are so dark Jack could stare into them forever and never know even a glimmer of what he was thinking...

"Shit, Morrison." Reyes looks away with a soft smile. "Made me forget what I was gonna say." He rubs his jaw, fingers rasping over the stubble there. "Let's go."

Jack doesn't follow this time, heart pounding in his chest as the words climb up out of him, held back by the thinnest veil of fear. But he has to say it. "Captain."

Reyes turns. "Hm?"

Jack grins at him, defeated. "We gotta do something about this."

"About what?"

Jack rolls his eyes. "Come on. You know what I'm talking about."

Reyes is quiet for a second. "Fuck," he mutters. "Yeah, I know."

"So?" Jack presses. "What do we wanna do?"

"I can't be the one to start that discussion," Reyes tells him. "I'm your commanding officer. And on that note, we shouldn't be doing _anything."_

"Says the guy who sucked his CO's dick and then bragged about it," Jack shoots back.

Reyes rubs his forehead, embarrassed. That's new. "That wasn't bragging, that was Truth or Dare."

"Oh, come on. That was bragging."

"Fine, fine." Reyes waves a hand. "We still shouldn't."

"So you're shutting me down?" Jack asks bluntly. 

"I didn't say that," Reyes murmurs.

There it is. "Good. Because I want to do this."

A grimace. "Do what, exactly?"

"I don't know." Jack shrugs. "What we did on the fourth of July. Maybe..." His stomach flutters a little with nervousness. "Take you up on that offer. If it's still open, I mean."

Reyes nods knowingly. "So you want your dick sucked, is what I'm hearing."

"Well, I also want to return the favor," Jack adds. Not that he's sucked a cis guy’s dick since he was training outside Chicago three years back, but it's _Reyes,_ and Jack has seen him naked, sure, but hasn't _touched_ him—

Reyes takes his face in both hands and kisses him on the mouth.

A lot less sloppy than last time, and less aggressive too. Jack grasps Reyes’s shirt as he leans into it, Reyes’s fingers running lightly through his hair, resting on the back of his neck. It’s almost gentle.

And maybe it should be that way. Maybe this should be careful and slow, because there’s already enough risk here and it wouldn’t be good to pour too much of himself into it. He shouldn’t be doing this in the first place. But that's a thought he's discarded even as it crosses his mind, because the want is overpowering, with Reyes's body so close to his own, so instead he just tugs a little on the black fabric hooked in his fingers. Reyes’s tongue dips forward to brush his lips, questioning; Jack opens his mouth and breathes in, and Reyes follows him there, grabbing his waist now. Jack sits up on the table so he can pull Reyes in closer, to stand between his open legs. Their bodies press together, Reyes firm and _broad—_ one arm wrapping around Jack’s back, a hand between his shoulderblades, drawing him in. He feels captured.

Jack takes a shuddering breath. It feels _good._

Reyes lets out a quiet laugh and then kisses him again.

Now it’s more aggressive. Jack opens himself up to it eagerly, letting Reyes take what he wants—a grip on his thigh dragging him closer until he’s right on the edge of the table, his crotch flush with Reyes’s stomach. He rolls his hips instinctively and the hand slides around to his ass, grabs it and squeezes. The sudden heat in his groin is almost searing. Jack breaks the kiss and gasps out, “Captain—“

“Morrison, you probably shouldn’t call me that while we’re fucking.”

Jack blinks, trying to clear his head. “Uh—okay. What do I call you?”

Reyes backs off, his hand resting unmoving on Jack’s thigh. “Gabe’s fine.”

“Okay.”

Reyes leans in and kisses his neck. There’s the faintest hint of teeth, and Jack shivers, finger’s balling in Reyes’s shirt. “Ca—Gabe—“

Reyes kisses his throat and murmurs into his skin, “Yeah?”

Jack rolls his hips again—grinds, he’ll admit it, against Gabe’s stomach. “It—it feels good—“

The hand that was on his thigh runs over his waistband and slips beneath it—still outside his briefs, thumb tracing the joint of his hip. Jack jumps a little and nods, tilting his head back—Gabe going lower, over the triangle of curled hair—

—meeting his soft vulva, still covered by the briefs, and Jack bites his lip so he doesn’t embarrass himself.

Gabe cups him, palm putting a deep pressure on his dick, one finger sliding over his folds to press at his entrance through the fabric. Now Jack whines, splaying his legs open and trying to spear himself on that finger—not that he can with the briefs in between. So instead he grinds against the heel of Gabe’s hand, setting off dull throbs of pleasure between his legs.

“Hey,” Gabe murmurs.

Jack clenches his shirt and tries to focus. “Y—yeah?”

“What do you call your junk?”

He lets out a startled chuckle. “My dick. And my—my cunt.”

Strange to say it out loud—the words lewd-sounding in the quiet, dim conference room, and Gabe kisses his jaw, the corner of his mouth, tugs at his lower lip. “Understood.”

His palm rolls against Jack’s dick, and Jack gasps, grasping his shirt. “Gabe—do you want to—want to fuck me—“

“Hm.” Gabe’s breath is warm on the sensitive skin at his neck. “Whether or not I want to really isn’t the issue right now. You had surgery a week ago.”

“Ten days,” Jack mutters.

“I’m still not going to fuck you.”

 _“Please,_ Gabe—“

That provokes a chuckle, and Gabe straightens, a coy grin on his face. “God damn, Morrison. You’re good.”

Jack blinks. “What?”

“One of my favorite things.” Gabe leans forward, his lips just brushing Jack’s. “Is making proud men beg for my dick.”

Jack almost fishes Gabe’s dick out of his pants and spears himself on it right then and there. But instead he kisses Gabe hard, grinding against his stomach with short little thrusts. “Please—“ he breathes into Gabe’s mouth. “Fuck me—“

A fist balling in his hair, yanking his head back. It makes his toes curl. “I’m not going to fuck you, Morrison,” Gabe growls.

The other hand is slipping beneath Jack’s waistband—under his briefs this time. “But I am going to eat your cunt.”

Jack pulls his head down first to kiss him, wants to taste those lips again before he feels them on his crotch. Gabe’s fingers stroke his cheek, teeth scraping his lower lip—aggressive as ever, and he responds to it eagerly, breath catching in his chest.

Then Gabe pulls back and cups Jack’s jaw, runs a calloused thumb across his lips. “Take off your pants.”

Jack hops off the table and hastens to unbuckle his belt. It’s hard to concentrate with Gabe’s fingers running through his hair— _possessively,_ he thinks, and it sends an excited shiver all the way down to his toes.

Then a thought occurs to him, and he pauses with his briefs halfway down his ass. “Uh—have you ever done this before?”

“What? Gone down on a trans guy?”

“Or anyone with—yeah.”

Gabe grins. “I have, but it was probably three or four years ago. So I might be a huge disappointment.”

“Hm.” Jack nods thoughtfully. “Maybe you should just fuck me instead. You know, to be safe.”

“I told you already, I’m not fucking you, Morrison.”

Jack groans. “It’s been _over a week.”_

Gabe leans in and kisses his neck. “Fuck, Morrison, you really that desperate?” he murmurs.

That makes Jack gush again, and he shudders, pressing his forehead to Gabe’s shoulder. “Y—y-yeah—“

“Then get your pants off so I can eat your cunt.”

So Jack steps out of his briefs, unwilling to delay any longer, and Gabe’s hand goes straight to the juncture of his thighs and rubs his puffy cunt.

Jack gasps—it’s been so long since someone else has touched him. How many years now? Three? Gabe massages his folds, rubs his swollen dick. The heat is instantaneous, blooming in his crotch and makes his knees go weak. He grabs onto Gabe for support, leaning into Gabe’s muscular chest—rolls his hips, unable to stop himself—

“Yeah, that’s it,” Gabe breathes. “Grind on me.”

Jack balls his fingers in Gabe’s shirt and grinds. Gabe’s other arm is around his back, just as much steadying him as pulling him in. “Yeah, that’s right.” He kisses Jack’s hair. “How’s it feel?”

“It feels—good—“

One of Gabe’s fingertips crooks to tease his entrance and Jack tries to capture it and take it inside him—but Gabe retreats, draws little light circles around his hole instead. Jack kisses the dip at the base of Gabe’s throat. “Can you at least—finger me?”

“No.”

Jack groans in frustration. “God damnit.”

“Morrison, you’re hot and I want to fuck you and this is only making me want to fuck you more,” Gabe tells him. “But I won’t risk hurting you. Period.”

Jack laughs. "You just beat the shit out of me."

"Hey, we beat the shit out of of each other," Gabe says pointedly. "There's a difference and you know it."

I want you in me, Jack thinks, I haven't been able to stop staring at you since the day I got here and all I want right now is for you to pin me down and fuck me until I can't remember my own name.

But he doesn't say any of that out loud. Instead he kisses Gabe's throat, the crook of his neck. Gabe lets out a rumbling sigh. "Okay, you ready?"

"Yeah."

Gabe kneels on the floor.

Jack braces himself against the table and spreads his legs, feeling a little exposed—they're still in the fucking conference room, for Christ's sake. Anyone could just walk in and catch them. But he really doesn't care about that right now. Right now what he wants is for Gabe to go down on him.

Gabe pulls Jack's cunt to his face.

He doesn't hesitate or hold back, which Jack had been afraid of. Because his junk doesn't look like most other guys' junk, and he's always been hard fucking pressed to find other gay guys talking about what trans guys are packing the same way they drool over dick.

Gabe gives him a long, slow lick, and Jack's thighs tremble. Been a while since he's felt that. "That's a nice fucking dick, Morrison," Gabe murmurs.

Jack lets out a surprised laugh. "Thanks." He always wishes it were bigger, but it's a respectable inch or so. Gabe captures it with his lips and sucks—just barely, but it's still enough to make Jack's toes curl, and he hunches forward, drawing in a shaky breath.

"And you got a nice ass." Gabe squeezes his ass with both hands. It feels really good in a way Jack didn't anticipate, and his hips twitch forward, rolling against Gabe's mouth.

A low chuckle. "You like getting your ass grabbed, Morrison?"

"Ah—apparently," Jack answers.

"I don't blame you." Another long lick, his broad tongue massaging Jack's vulva. "So do I."

Jack makes a mental note as Gabe sucks his labia, kisses his dick. He squirms a little, palms flattening against the table, but the powerful arms around his thighs keep his crotch locked firmly to Gabe's face. Gabe is just so much _bigger_ than he is, and stronger...

The tip of Gabe's tongue circles his entrance and he claps a hand to his mouth to muffle the _"mm"_ that whines out of him.

Gabe breaks away, grinning. "Looks like I remembered something useful after all."

“Jesus.” Jack blinks, trying to get his thoughts in order. “I’m—I’m really sensitive. I don’t think…”

“It might be the drugs,” Gabe tells him. "I know you probably haven't gotten much of a chance to jerk off since you got here but I have my own room, and let me tell you. There's a difference."

“Keep going," Jack breathes, grabbing Gabe's head and pulling it back down to his cunt.

Maybe a little ungrateful, but Gabe gets back to work again, licking with short, firm strokes of his tongue, pausing to close his lips around Jack's dick.

Then he sucks and the spear of sensation is so sharp that Jack nearly knees him in the chest as he bucks, grabbing Gabe's hair and yanking his head away. _"Christ."_

Gabe looks up and wipes his mouth. "Sorry. Too much?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'd say that." Jack reaches down and touches himself. His dick is fat and swollen between his fingers.

"Okay. I won't do it again."

"Good. You might get kneed in the face. Not on purpose, but."

Gabe guffaws. "Thanks for the warning." He smacks Jack's ass. "You wanna get your legs up on my shoulders?"

Jack really wants to do that so he does, hiking his legs up and over and Gabe pulls him closer, pressing his mouth to Jack's crotch.

His stubble is a little scratchy on Jack's inner thighs, but only a little. His calloused hands run up beneath Jack's shirt, up either side of his spine to cup his shoulderblades. Just being _touched_ is enough to make his dick pulse with pleasure. "Mm—Gabe—"

"Yeah?" Gabe murmurs into his cunt.

"It feels—it feels good—"

A huff of breath, warm on his puffy vulva. Then Gabe's tongue at his entrance again. Not teasing anymore. It reminds him of the drunken night after the fireworks when Gabe knew what he wanted and demanded it—and Jack surrendered it then like he does now, making a needy sound and digging his heels into Gabe's back. "Yeah—Gabe, please—"

Gabe presses into him and he whines, frustrated that he's not being fucked even though that's all he wants, for Gabe to be _inside_ him—

Then Gabe's tongue flickers at his hole and he stifles a cry, collapsing to an elbow and gripping the edge of the table.

"You like that, Morrison?" Gabe breathes.

"Yeah—yeah, it's good—" His voice wavers and he swallows, trying to maintain some semblance of control. It's not working. Gabe's tongue flutters at his entrance again, feather-light but it's still enough to make him gasp and lurch forward, running his fingers through Gabe's hair. _"Fuck,_ please finger me, _please—"_

"No." Gabe sits back a second, kissing his inner thigh. "Not today."

Then he moves higher, away from Jack's hole, and his lips lock around Jack’s dick, warm and tight. He bobs his head up and down, blowing Jack like he’d blow any other guy.

The best part is it _works_ —he remembers not to suck so instead his lips just squeeze Jack, sliding the hood of his dick back and forth. The smooth, hot friction builds fast, and Jack swallows a whimper, the swollen nub between his legs throbbing with pleasure. Gabe makes little quiet grunts as he works, and the vibrations from his lips go straight down to the base of Jack’s dick.

Jack grips the table so hard it hurts. "Gabe—please—"

Rough hands rubbing his back, soothing him. "Yeah?"

"Please." He shuts his eyes for a moment, feels the flushed warmth in his face and chest. "Make me come."

Gabe smiles. "No pressure or anything."

Jack grins, reaching down to stroke his cheek. "It's not gonna take much, I promise."

"Okay." Gabe kisses Jack's dick, wraps both arms around his thighs and holds them tight. No escape.

One last lance of uncertainty pierces the lust haze. As if that, his orgasm, would somehow seal things, as if what they've done so far isn't truly a transgression until he finishes. But looking down at Reyes's—at Gabe's face buried between his thighs—the risk doesn't matter because he _wants_ this, he wants it so badly. He's never desired someone like this before. Has never _felt_ so desired.

Gabe's mouth on his dick.

No more tricks or toying. He presses the flat of his tongue to Jack's dick and rubs it with short little thrusts. Must have remembered that from last time too. Jack shuts his eyes and tips his head back. "Yeah, yeah, that's good."

Gabe breathes out and the warmth makes his cunt tighten around the empty air. He moans, rolling his hips against Gabe's face reflexively. A sound of surprise. Jack stops and blinks, looking down. "What? What's wrong?"

Gabe sits back ands hakes his head. "Nothing. That was just—really fucking hot."

His eyes are fire-bright, fixed on Jack's. Abruptly Jack realizes the guard is gone. In fact, he hadn't even realized it was there—because Reyes prides himself on responsibility so even when the two of them were talking last night in their hospital gowns about kissing girls or boys Reyes was still his commanding officer. But he isn't here because he can't be. Isn't thinking about what everyone else wants for once. Instead it's his own want and it's aimed—somehow—squarely at Jack.

"Come on," Jack tells him. "Give me your mouth."

Gabe leans in again and Jack grabs his hair, the other elbow braced on the table, and fucks against his mouth. His thighs slide through Gabe's arms. A low, muffled moan into his cunt. Jack grins deliriously, grinding his dick against Gabe's broad, wet tongue, heat building where their bodies meet. Not quite how he expected things to go—him using his commanding officer's mouth to get off. "Fuck," he breathes. "Gabe."

"Hm." Gabe looks up but doesn't break away, keeping his face locked to the juncture of Jack's thighs. Their eyes meet, Jack's hips still rocking forward because it feels too good to stop.

"Yeah— _nn."_ The tip of his dick catches Gabe's tongue just right, sending a shiver down to his toes. "Just like that."

"Mm." Gabe's hands run up his waist and ribs.

Still a little sore, and Jack winces a little but grabs Gabe's hand and squeezes it. His breath catches in his chest as he rolls with short little thrusts against Gabe's tongue. His dick is swollen and sensitive, sparking with pleasure with each tilt of his hips. His thighs are trembling to either side of Gabe's' head. "I'm—I'm close—"

Gabe laces their fingers together, his eyes meeting Jack's own. Then his tongue drags over Jack's dick, flicking the tip—

Jack's head falls back. "Fuck, oh, fuck, I'm coming."

The orgasm rushes over him a second later. Gabe's tongue is still massaging his dick and he fucks against hit helplessly, hips jerking up but Gabe holds him tight, mouth locked to his vulva. Jack's dick pulses, his cunt clenching around nothing— _Christ,_ he wishes he were getting fucked—and the echo of it makes his back arch and his legs shudder. He gasps in a breath and curls forward, one hand still braced on the table but his weight resting on Gabe's shoulders. "Fuck, fuck, Gabe, _fuck,"_ he hisses.

Then the peak levels off and his hips slow, but Gabe's tongue still swirls his dick. "Oh my god," he murmurs, riding out the muted shocks of pleasure that make his whole body go warm and numb. He runs his fingers through Gabe's hair, cupping the back of his neck. With the most intense part behind him now he just feels relaxed and happy—grins because he can't stop himself.

Gabe is still teasing his dick like he doesn't want to stop, and when it finally becomes too much Jack squirms and grasps his wrist. "Okay, okay, fuck, okay."

So Gabe sits back at last and Jack stands—wobbles—on his own two feet again, grabbing Gabe's shirt and pulling him up—kissing him hard, tasting himself in the kiss. Calloused hands grabbing his ass again, and Jack moans into Gabe’s mouth. He cracks an eye open—spots a chair just to his left, so he reaches out with one foot and drags it closer, spins Gabe and pushes him firmly down.

Gabe lands heavily, gazing up at Jack with the same hunger, undiminished. Jack still feels it too, even after the orgasm, his cunt still wet and suffused with heat between his legs. He kneels, unbuttoning the dark blue uniform pants and pulling down the fly. A breathy “Morrison,” from above him. Gabe’s dick is full and hard, stretching his black briefs, and Jack can’t resist leaning forward to mouth it through the thin fabric. “Morrison,” Gabe says again. “Wait. _Jack,_ wait.”

Jack looks up, his lips pressed to the firm shape of Gabe’s shaft; but he sits back and swallows. “Yeah?”

Gabe rubs his eyes with one hand. “We need to slow down. Let’s take a break.”

That’s the last thing Jack wants to do, but he accedes, rising slowly; he sits on Gabe’s lap, straddling his waist.

A slow kiss first—not chaste, exactly, but not as frenzied as the ones they’ve shared before. “Sorry for interrupting you,” Gabe murmurs. “But…that was pretty intense.”

It was. More so than Jack had expected, but he’s far from disappointed about it. “Yeah, but it was good.”

“Hm.” Gabe watches him. “When was the last time you had sex again?”

Jack lifts an eyebrow. “Uh…three years ago?”

“Okay, yeah, we definitely need to slow down.”

_“Gabe—“_

“And it’s our first time together, Morrison. Jack.” He shakes his head with half a grin. “Shouldn’t be calling you Morrison here either. Anyway, I’m still getting to know what’s good for you and what’s not and I don’t want to cross any of your boundaries—“

“I’ll _tell_ you if you cross them—“ Jack interrupts.

Gabe talks over him. “—and you haven’t had sex with someone else in three years so I want to make sure you know your _own_ boundaries before I start getting anywhere near them.”

It makes sense for him to think that, is the frustrating part. Despite how ready Jack is to dive headfirst into whatever comes next, he’s exquisitely aware of just how little he knows about himself here, let alone the two of them together. Still, he’s not much for caution, especially not when he _finally_ gets to go down on the CO he’s been thinking about ever since he got here. “I just…I’m doing what _feels_ right.”

“Uh-huh. You know how I feel about using your head.”

“I know, I know. Well.” He kisses Gabe again, slow and lingering. “You mentioned something about making your partners beg.”

Gabe snorts. “Maybe we should save that for next time.”

“I mean, that’s up to you. But I like the sound of it.”

Gabe blinks, caught speechless. Jack leans in to kiss him again. “And like I said, I’ll tell you if it’s too much.”

“Yeah, right,” Gabe mutters.

“Can I get off your lap now?”

Gabe takes a deep breath, some of his composure returning, and gives Jack a sly smile. “Don’t let me stop you.”

Finally. Jack gets up and kneels, pressing his lips again to the front of Gabe’s briefs. Can’t see exactly how big he is, but Jack can tell it’s at least going to be a lot to handle. He reaches up and slips his fingers under Gabe’s waistband—

“Jack. Hang on.”

Again? Jack looks up.

Gabe hesitates, gazing down at Jack with lidded eyes; then he beckons. “Give me your hands.”

So Jack reaches up, and Gabe takes both hands and flattens them on his thighs, pressing Jack's palms to his uniform pants and the muscle beneath. "Okay," he says. "Go ahead."

Jack leans in again to get his mouth on Gabe's dick.

Gabe is _hard,_  such that Jack can feel the jump of blood against his lips. He licks at the firm flesh, tilting his head to get at the base of it—can barely reach Gabe's balls inside the crotch of his pants, but Gabe tilts his hips forward and Jack gets his mouth on them, sucking at one soft orb through the briefs. 

It all sort of catches up with him at once—what he's doing and how he's hardly thinking about it, just getting his mouth on whatever he can. But he doesn't stop, because if Gabe thinks he's having second thoughts—and he's _not—_ then they'll have to take another break and that's the last thing Jack wants right now. He nuzzles into Gabe's crotch, the thick shaft rubbing his cheek—but he wants to _taste_ Gabe so he tries to pull his hands back but Gabe doesn't let them go.

Jack makes a noise of protest, too busy licking Gabe's length to form any words. A low chuckle from above. Fine. He moves higher—nudges the fly open a little further, searching out...

When he reaches the head of Gabe's dick there's a shiver under his palms and a shuddered intake of breath. Jack's gaze flicks up to find Gabe's eyes closed, lips parted slightly. Right. The drugs. His thumbs stroke the back of Jack's hands—but his grip stays. That just isn't goddamn fair. Jack mouths the head of Gabe's dick through the briefs, his breath condensing on the thin fabric. He wants to _taste_  it. Once more he tries to pull his hands back but Gabe keeps them captured. Jack whines, tracing the crown where it tents the fabric with the tip of his tongue. 

"Ask me for it," Gabe murmurs.

The shot of heat to Jack's cunt is so immediate he has to break away and rest his forehead against Gabe's thigh. The burn in his cheeks only fuels it. He swallows. Is he ready for this? Of course he is, he _wants_ it. "Please."

Gabe lets out a rumbling sigh, rubbing Jack's hands but not letting them go. "What was that?"

"Please let me suck you off." Jack leans in again, lips latching on to the side of Gabe's shaft while he massages it with his tongue. 

Clearer now. More commanding. "Ask me again."

"Nn." Jack pulls off reluctantly. _"Please_ let me suck you off." Only just manages to get the last words out before he's mouthing at Gabe's balls again.

"Fuck, Morrison," Gabe hisses, and releases him at last. "Yeah, go ahead. Fuck."

Finally. Jack wastes no time, pulling Gabe's briefs down until his erection falls free.

Jesus. It'll be a lot to handle. A good seven inches or so, dark foreskin stretched around the thick shaft and hugging the crown. But Jack's had enough of waiting, and he lunges forward and takes the head into his mouth.

The faintest taste of salt, and Jack sucks gently, grasping the base to position himself better. For a moment he indulges himself, savoring the feel of it, the _weight_ of Gabe's cockhead on his tongue; then he sits back, feeling he should be honest with Gabe. With himself, too. "Hey, uh."

Gabe looks down. "Hm?"

"So I haven't done this in a while." _Three years,_  he thinks. "So if—if there's something I could be doing better—"

"Don't worry about it. Really." Gabe smiles at him, softly. "Just do what feels right. It's not that tough, I promise. Especially with the drugs."

"Okay." Jack grips him, rubbing a thumb up the underside of his length. Gabe relaxes back and nods. "A little higher."

So Jack moves up until he's rubbing the base of the crown and Gabe's whole body shifts, his legs splaying, fingers tightening on the arms of the chair. "Yeah, that's it."

Well, he doesn't need his thumb to do that. Jack takes the whole glans in his mouth and rubs the same spot with his tongue this time.

"Mm, yeah, that's good."

Fingers running through his hair. Good. He's doing good. The last guy he blew was cut so Jack doesn't have much of an idea what to do with the foreskin; experimentally he nudges it down with his tongue to expose the whole of Gabe's crown and sucks gently.

"Ah, _fuck."_ Gabe hikes his legs up—maybe a little too much, so Jack slides it back up and settles for jerking him nice and steady, mouthing his head. 

It's nice. Gabe's eyes are closed, his legs trembling now and then when Jack hits a sensitive spot. He makes little noises of contentment, stroking Jack's hair. Jack wants to hold his hand but already has one wrapped around his dick and the other rubbing his own dick furiously. 

Yeah, it's nice. But it's not enough. Jack adjust his grip, flattening his pinky and ring finger on Gabe's stomach, and sinks lower.

"Mm." Gabe's hips roll, pushing him just a little deeper into Jack's mouth—brushing the entrance to his throat for the briefest moment before pulling back.

Jack knows immediately he wants that. If he can't have Gabe inside his cunt, then he'll just have to use his throat. So he takes a deep breath and pushes down. 

Pressure at the entrance to his throat—a _lot_  of pressure before Gabe pops through, and the stretch is painful—until it's not, not really, an adrenaline shot like a battle rush sweeping the pain down and away. He's amazed at how easy it seems to be after that, Gabe slipping deeper—

Jack gags, throat tightening and forcing the thick cockhead out at the same moment Gabe pulls away and swears. _"Fuck,_  Jack." A half-stunned chuckle. "You really don't have to do that. That shit takes practice."

"I want to," Jack tells him. "And anyway, I think...I don't know. It wasn't as hard as it should have been. It didn't really hurt."

Gabe stares down at him. "Wait. Are you saying—"

Jack leans into Gabe's thigh, chuckling as he idly rubs his dick. "I'm telling you, these drugs they're giving us have real money-making potential."

"Jesus Christ." Gabe grins, straightening up to cup Jack's cheek. "But really, you don't have to." 

"And I told you, I want to. Didn't you tell me to do what feels right?" Jack grins back, then returns to his task. 

Another deep breath and he descends, fingers tightening in the hard muscle of Gabe's thigh. The _pop,_  the start of an ache quickly tamped down. And then he...opens up, somehow, around the thick girth spreading his throat. What the drugs don't do is kill his gag reflex, so he coughs again, forcing Gabe's dick back up into his mouth. 

"Fuck." Gabe strokes Jack's hair, cups the back of his neck. "Jack, really, you don't have to..."

Then he breaks off in a moan as Jack dives forward again, taking Gabe's dick three, four, five inches—the base is so close. Another gag, and thick saliva fills his mouth. He tries to go further but the tightening of his throat won't let him, so he pulls off again, gasping. 

Gabe's palm is pressed to his mouth, his eyes closed, brow furrowed. Jack rubs his thigh. "What? Is something wrong?"

"No. Uh. I mean, I knew I was more sensitive."

Jack nods in understanding. "But when you finally find yourself a nice, wet hole to fuck..."

Gabe snorts. "You're more than a nice, wet hole, Jack."

"Well, yeah, I know," he concedes. "But I  _have_  a nice, wet hole. More than one, actually, so if you want to try option two—"

"Nice try, but no."  


"Come _on,_  I promise I'm— _mm."_ An electric spark of pleasure shoots through him, and he bites his lip.

"Fuck."

He looks up, his fingers still moving, dipping down to gather wetness as he rubs his dick. "Huh?"

"It's really hot." Gabe's eyes are locked on him, the trace of a smile on his face. "You getting yourself off in front of me."

"Feels pretty good, too." Jack leans in again, squeezing Gabe's dick, licking the length of it.

Gabe relaxes back. "Yeah, come on."

Jack is happy to get back to work, and he captures the swollen cockhead in his mouth, sucking at it while he jerks the shaft with his free hand. Takes just a few seconds to steel himself before he inhales and descends once more. He wants it, he wants the whole thing inside him. 

Again the urge to cough, but he quells it this time, forces himself down further. Only two inches left. Less. He can feel the stretch in his throat, that and the strange absence of pain—then he gags and has to pull back, Gabe's dick sliding from between his lips, covered in spit. 

"God damn," Gabe breathes. "Jack. Don't push yourself too hard."

Jack, wiping his mouth and leaning down, instantly disregards that advice. He's going to do it this time. The cockhead pops into his throat and goes deeper, Jack balling his fingers in Gabe's shirt. Again his throat tightens, his brow knotting—but he keeps pushing, eyes starting to water. Tries to force himself deeper and simply can't make it, not like this—so he lunges forward, wrapping an arm around Gabe's waist and dragging himself the rest of the way. 

It works. He reaches the base of Gabe's dick, nose buried in thick, dark pubic hair. To either side of his head Gabe's thighs tense and jerk up, and there's what sounds like a curse in Spanish above him. His throat is _full,_ wrapped around the thick shaft like a glove. He feels the cough coming and can't suppress it, saliva bursting from his trembling lips and coating his chin. 

"Look at me," Gabe snarls.

So Jack looks up, meeting Gabe's eyes, throat impaled on his dick. Gabe holds his gaze for only a second before tipping his head back and swearing again.

The next gag pushes Gabe's dick out of Jack's throat—but not all the way, and Jack pushes forward again, determined, forcing himself down until his nose is pressed to Gabe's stomach. Another hot flash of pleasure between his legs and he tries to gasp but the noise is muffled by the thick shaft blocking his throat. He coughs again, losing an inch but gaining it back right away. There's a tightness in his chest from the lack of air but he can't bring himself to care. 

“Fuck, Jack,” Gabe moans. 

The next gag does it, finally, Gabe’s dick sliding slick and heavy past his lips, falling from his mouth. Jack heaves in breaths, wiping the tears from his eyes.

“Fuck, that’s good.” Gabe jerks himself, foreskin stretching over the ridge of his cockhead as it retreats, then rising to capture the crown once more. It's mesmerizing. But Jack can't be satisfied just watching. Instead he reaches beneath and finds Gabe's balls, lips locking to the soft skin as he sucks.

A rumbling sigh. "You really want it, don't you?"

"Mm-hmm." Jack slides two fingers into himself. God damn, he's wet. Would be easy to take Gabe's dick right now, despite how thick it is. 

"Okay, come on, come on." Gabe braces his hands again on the arms the chair.

Jack straightens a little, guiding Gabe's dick into his mouth. Easier now that he expects it, the fat cockhead popping into his throat. Once it's there he bobs, using his throat to pleasure Gabe. The gagging isn't so bad anymore. He still does it, of course, guttural grunts coming from him when he tightens reflexively around Gabe's shaft. But he never lets it slip past his lips. The thick saliva he coughs up works well to lubricate things, too, even if it does make things messy. He can feel it coating his chin. His cheeks, too, are coated with the tears that spill from his eyes when his gag reflex kicks in too strongly. 

"Jesus." Gabe's hand is pressed to his mouth again, eyes squeezed shut. "Fuck. Christ. Jack."

"Hm." Must be close. Jack ups the pace, plunging down, fucking his throat on Gabe's dick. Another cough, and he grunts as saliva sprays past his lips. 

_"Nn—"_  Gabe's thigh twitches, and he throws his head back, teeth gritted. "Ah, _fuck._  You like that, Morrison? You like choking yourself on my dick?"

_"Mm—"_  Cut off by another cough, one that forces Gabe's cockhead back up into his mouth; but immediately he pushes himself back down again. He does like it, of course, even when it's phrased like that—or especially, maybe. His chest aches a little from staying airless for long seconds while he's spearing himself on Gabe's dick. 

"God damnit. Fuck, Jack. I'm gonna come."

Jack tries to go faster and isn't sure if he can, his throat filled, stretched around Gabe's length. He presses his tongue to the underside of the shaft, massaging it as best as he can while he's bobbing up and down. 

"Fuck. Jack. Sit back and open your mouth." 

So Jack pulls off, gasping in breath, opening up and sticking out his tongue. Gabe jerks himself hard and fast, fingers running through Jack's hair— _possessively,_  Jack thinks, and his toes curl as his dick throbs under his fingers. Gabe's cockhead rests on his tongue, slick with spit. He gazes up, waiting, obedient—

"Oh my god," Gabe moans, his eyes fluttering shut as the first jet of cum shoots from his dick.

It's salty —the second jet and the third, Jack trying not to smile while he watches the silent euphoria on Gabe's face, his lips parted, head drifting forward as he takes long, deep breaths. Another shot of cum and his eyes slide open, meeting Jack's. Jack holds his gaze, his own grip tightening on Gabe's thigh while his fingers fly back and forth, strumming his dick. 

"Oh my god," Gabe murmurs again, squeezing himself, his dick pulsing out a final few drops of cum. 

Jack takes the tip into his mouth, swiping at Gabe's slit with his tongue. Gabe swears again and grabs Jack's hand, stroking the back of it. "Hey, hey. Come on up here."

Jack sort of wants to keep sucking him off but realizes that can't happen immediately, at least, since Gabe is softening; so instead he gets to his feet and sits sideways on Gabe's lap, one hand still tucked between his legs. Gabe pulls him down for a kiss. Slower this time, but more...intimate, Jack thinks, as Gabe's tongue pushes into his mouth. And of course, intimacy is just what they should be avoiding here. Gabe's still his CO outside of this room. (Even _in_  this room, but Jack puts that out of his mind. They decided together.)

Then his fingertip catches the tip of his dick and he gasps into Gabe's mouth. 

A chuckle, and Gabe kisses the corner of his jaw, murmurs, "Haven't come yet?"

"No." Jack grasps his shoulder for support. "But I'm—I'm close." 

"Want me to do it?"

"Y-yeah—"

Gabe's hand rests on his bare thigh, callouses rough on his skin. Jack lets him in, two thick fingers finding his dick and rubbing in deep, slow circles. "Damn," Gabe breathes. "You're hard."

Jack holds onto him, toes curling. "Yeah, yeah—"

"Hey, you like having your nipples played with?"

He hasn't had much experience with it but knows they have sensation—biosheet reconstruction during the surgery went just like it was supposed to—so he nods.

Gabe slides his shirt up, palm running up his ribs, and bends down, lips pressed to one nipple. 

Okay. That definitely feels good in a way that takes Jack by surprise, and his fist balls in Gabe's shirt. "Oh, shit."

"Hm?" 

"Y—yeah, keep going." 

Gabe's fingers stroke him, sliding the hood up and down his dick, and Jack tries to stay relaxed so he doesn't crush Gabe's hand in his thighs. But Gabe's tongue circles his nipple and Jack moans, hips rolling.

"Huh," Gabe says, and Jack can hear the grin in his voice. "That felt good?"

"Yeah, it—it felt good." Jack arches his back, offering himself—

Gabe's lips lock around the sensitive bud, sucking gently, his free hand holding Jack's waist. And again the feeling of being touched sets off a gush of heat in his cunt and swollen dick, and he squirms, tilting his hips, fucking against Gabe's fingers. "I'm getting—I'm getting close—"

"Hm." Gabe's lips thrum as he grunts, and he sucks harder, upping his pace, strumming Jack's dick back and forth. Jack cries out and forgets to stifle it, a half-formed flare of warning belatedly crossing his mind. The suction on his nipple, Gabe's tongue flicking over the tip, the wet friction on his dick—

Jack is aware of the orgasm for only a split-second before it crashes over him, the burst of pleasure shooting from his core all the way down to the tips of his toes and making his legs go tense. He thrusts forward uncontrolled, can feel his dick pulsing even as Gabe keeps jerking him, his cunt tightening. "Fuck, Gabe, fuck," he whines, arm wrapped around Gabe's shoulders now; the mouth at his nipple disappears and then Gabe is kissing his neck, rubbing his back.

His body is suffused with warmth, his legs going boneless as he drops back to Gabe's lap, tilting his head so Gabe can get at his neck better. "Fuck, that felt good," he murmurs. Feels that he should be worried about something—about them together, about getting discovered, any of that—but the orgasm has wiped that all away, at least for the moment. 

"Mm." Gabe rests his forehead in Jack's shoulder. "That was fucking hot."

Jack giggles and then covers his mouth. Whoops. "Felt pretty good too."

Gabe kisses the crook of his shoulder, his clavicle where it shows above the collar of the shirt. Jack sits there and lets himself breathe for a moment, basking in the afterglow of the orgasm. The room is quiet but it isn't awkward or tense, which bodes well. Because this was _good_ —for Jack, at least, and he thinks Gabe feels the same. 

"Hm." Gabe lets out a deep sigh and sits back. "We should probably think about getting dressed."

"Yeah, I know," Jack mumbles. It's still true that anyone could walk in at any minute and see him half-naked sitting on his CO's lap—although at least he thinks Gabe's dick is obscured by his thighs. 

He rises at last, legs a little wobbly, and pulls his briefs and pants back on. When he looks over his shoulder Gabe (sitting in the chair with his fly zipped up) is watching with a sort of half-stunned grin. "What?" Jack asks.

"Nothing. You just got a really nice ass. Unlike someone I could name, I haven't been sneaking looks in the shower."

Jack covers his face. "I'm really sorry."

"Hey, it's okay. I already told you I don't give a shit." He rises, stretching. "Let's go get some dinner."

——

The next morning he wakes up at six a.m. like always. 

Liao and Lewis talk across from him during breakfast and he keeps up, mostly. His head is elsewhere. He eats too slow and has to shovel the last of the biscuit into his mouth when the six-forty-five alarm chimes. 

Reyes is already there when they reach the field, looking rested and well despite the bruises on his face that haven't quite gone away. "Warm up!" he barks. "You have five minutes! Then we're doing suicides!"

A series of groans from the squad. Jack doesn't join in. He's in a good mood. He starts up the field. 

As he passes Reyes on the sideline he catches the grin. Jack grins back, then jogs a little faster to catch up with Liao.


End file.
